


Exiles

by SheNeverWantedToLeave



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternative Timeline, Eventual Smut, F/M, Jonerys, More tags to be added as story progresses, No mad dany here, R Plus L Equals J, Slow Burn, always got each others backs, basically robert's rebellion hasn't ended yet, bobby b is alive longer in this story, catelyn's hate for jon is heavier here, dany and jon are best friends, memories of abuse but nothing graphic, mentions of abuse but nothing too graphic, revenge is coming, young dany and jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-01-31 17:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21449869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheNeverWantedToLeave/pseuds/SheNeverWantedToLeave
Summary: Shortly before the untimely death of Lyanna Stark, Ned Stark is presented with his sister's newborn son, a promise breathed through her dying lips to protect him, a promise he swore to keep. When Ned learns of the king, Robert Baratheon's plans to have every remaining Targaryen slaughtered, he must make sacrifices in order to keep his nephew, Aegon Targaryen, safe from his grasp. His decision leads little Aegon, now bestowed the moniker of Jon Snow, to the only other living Targaryens; Daenerys, sweet and charming, and her vile brother Viserys, repulsive and malicious. From there, madness ensues as they must learn to survive both together and apart.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 152
Kudos: 215





	1. In The Red Mountains of Dorne

**Author's Note:**

> Dear friends, I am extremely excited to publish this fic! I sincerely hope that you enjoy it; it will be GoT universe with a mostly alternative timeline/plots with some similar but altered plots. Putting this out there for a feel of interest, so I look forward to your thoughts ❤  
-Begins with some epilogue/backstory/foundation and eventually will bring us to present day between Dany and Jon POV's.  
-more tags to be added as story progresses

_ **281 AC** _

Eddard Stark gazed wide-eyed down at the small bundled babe in his arms, his eyes freshly damp by the death of his beloved sister.

“What will you do with him?” Howland Reed, one of Ned’s most faithful companions and the only other of his men to survive the battle before the Tower of Joy, inquired as they made haste through the Red Mountains of Dorne. Ned shielded the blinding, searing sunlight from the baby’s eyes as he cooed up at his uncle.

“I will do as I promised: protect him. But I don’t know that I can take him back to Winterfell with me. It would be a death sentence for him should Robert find out, and Catelyn will grow suspicious,” Ned replied, his head swimming. Cat will have given birth to their first child soon, if not already in his absence. They spoke of having a large family, and what would be to have two together? They could be raised together, love each other, form a strong and loyal bond, and at that moment Ned hoped for Cat to birth a son. The small, dark eyes not unlike Lyanna’s, ogling back at him yet unseeing. He had enough room in his heart for another, and would be proud to raise him as his own, but he would not admit to Howland that he feared his wife’s inability to withhold a secret, especially if it meant a threat to their family. And he would not live with himself if his nephew were murdered at a wet nurse’s breast.

Howland kept a wary eye out for further Targaryen kingsguard, but thus far were lucky since leaving the Tower. “What other choice is there? Who would take on such a responsibility?”

Ned paused, the sweltering Dornish heat seeping into his underlayers. “I may have a plan, but it would make me mad.” When the boy began to fuss, Ned gently shushed him and loosened the wrap to allow air to kiss his clammy skin, then stopped to turn around. “Theora,” he said to the young wet nurse whom he had summoned to join them after assisting in the birth of little Aegon, handing him off into her practiced arms. He became disarmed in the trade that was parenting a child, unsure of how to soothe a weeping babe, but he took care to observe how Theora handled him as if he were a fragile trinket, how her fingers always supported his head and positioned his little body so that he didn’t bend awkwardly.

As they continued on, Theora had nestled Aegon at her breast, careful to shield him from the blistering rays of the sun as he suckled greedily. Ned looked to his friend, one eye squinting in the brightness. “I know I can count on you to make no mention of him to anyone. A whisper can reach a thousand leagues in a fortnight.”

“Of course, my lord...but what of your wife?” They were careful to keep their voices low between them even in the absence of insatiable ears.

Ned’s eyes fell to the red soot below their feet. He knew what he had to do, and though his honor would grow privy to suspicion, he was unsure that his marriage would withstand it.

\---

The morning that he had returned to Winterfell was a dreary and stormy one, with harsh winds whipping sharp rain against his face and thunder vibrating the ground beneath him. Even so, Cat had abandoned the warm comfort of her bed where she had been getting some much-needed shut-eye beside their son, in order to greet her husband back home. But her smile quickly diminished and was replaced by questionable eyes of confusion at the child in his arms, and when he had explained in short what had happened, converted to a raw disgust. The sting of her hand across his face had hurt less than the lie he conjured, that he had betrayed their vows and promise to one another and fathered a bastard son in his time away from her, and all while she was laboring the birth of their first child together. An event she accepted he would miss because he was needed in King’s Landing, and to search for his missing sister.

She trudged through the mud and returned to their son’s cot and Ned continued on inside, ignoring the silent stares as he passed. With the assistance of a wet nurse and Old Nan, a spare room was cleaned and prepared for Aegon, whom Ned declared a moniker for as Jon Snow. A bastard’s name. The travel from the Sea of Dorne to White Harbor allowed him some time to solidify his story; he wished nothing more than to be honest with his wife, and though he loved her greatly, would not risk the danger of Aegon’s true identity if it ever were to seep through the cracks. Instead, he took advantage of her faith and would rather taint his own reputation than put his nephew at risk.

The small chamber was damp and cold in its lack of use, and Ned ensured that it was cleaned and warmed just as thoroughly as any other member of his family’s despite grievances any may have on the boy. As Cat had shut him out that day, Ned spent most of it with Jon, memorizing each little movement and noise and cue he presented to communicate his needs. Finally, by that evening, he sought out his wife after Jon was well asleep in the care of the wet nurse, to greet his newborn son.

The thin, stringy dark curls atop his head brought a wide smile to Ned’s face, and Cat tentatively returned the gesture, though was clearly still cross with him, and rightfully so. “What do we call you?” He asked softly as he gingerly swept up the boy in his arms.

“Robb,” Cat responded, her eyes mightily attentive to her young husband’s practiced attention. “You seem to have learned how to handle a babe in your time away…”

Ned tried to ignore the comment, though his face gave him away without a word, and instead he paced slowly around the room as Robb’s eyes fell onto the captivating flicker of the candles lighting the room.

“May I at least know her name, or what she was like?” She tried to sound genuine, Ned knew, but the words were ice.

“No,” he shot back, looking at her now. “I’m sorry, Cat. I am not proud of it, but we will speak no more of it from here on out. Do you understand me? His name is Jon...Jon Snow. And he is as every bit a part of this family as Robb.”

Eyes narrowing in a challenge, her jaw shifted into a clench, but she decided to swallow her retort. They were still freshly wed, and were still learning how to navigate one another, and she was less herself when she was exhausted.    
  
It was the frayed, broken thread that would suffocate their marriage for the rest of time, until one year past and word reached the realm that a Targaryen girl had been born at Dragonstone not long after Jon’s own birth. It caused a stir among the realm, and incessantly so in Ned’s stomach as it was quick to reach Robert Baratheon’s ears.

As the time passed from the day he returned home, relations with his wife mended painfully slowly, but her bitterness and resentful demeanor was thrust onto Jon even as an infant. She never tended to him even when he cried for hours into the night, and though Ned knew the hardship the situation brought her, a constant reminder of his deception to her, often he found she was too harsh when the fault did not lay with Jon.

Just as Ned had wished, Jon and Robb bonded from the beginning, squabbling as children did but were always keen to love on one another. While they grew their fondness became deeply rooted the older they became, but not without an ever-lingering grimace from above by Cat, who often found ways to scold Jon during their play or even separate the two when she felt he was getting too rough with her blood child. Oft times Ned wasn’t present for it, but Jon would always ask him at bed time what he had done wrong, why he was scorned for acting and playing just as the other children did. Ned did his best to assure him he was not in the wrong, and time and time again the conversation surfaced and a heated argument erupted between he and Cat one evening.

“It’s not only his feelings you are hurting, his soul is breaking!” He had lashed out, yanking his sleep tunic over his shoulders.

“He is a  _ boy _ , Ned! To be a man, and a bastard one at that, he will need to learn to harden to face this world! It’s hard enough being a trueborn-”

“Don’t, Cat. If you can be that venomous to lay  _ my _ wrongdoings onto an innocent child, I don’t want to hear any more from you,” he said plainly, though his voice shook. “What you are doing is not giving him a lesson on how to manage his...status; if it were, you would treat Robb just as equally, especially as he is  _ yours _ .”

Cat rose suddenly from the edge of the bed, whipping around to face him, her beautiful features strained and tired. “You came here with another woman’s child and  _ expected _ me to just accept it! To get on with it as if my husband hadn’t had eyes for another woman, and worse that he could not subdue temptation to relinquish in a lustful affair and bear her a child. I would accuse you of being a liar if I didn’t trust your word as much as I do. Isn’t that ironic?”

A small scoff escaped her. The dreary weather outside befit the mood, the rain whipping and slapping against the walls of their home just as Cat’s words did to his heart and soul. “Eddard the honorable, they call you, even now. But if our roles were turned, and I walked through the portcullis with a newborn baby in my arms from another man, I would have been cast out, spit on, exiled back to Riverrun or to whomever would have me.”

Her voice was small now, and Ned paused. When he walked over to try and comfort her, she wiggled her shoulder free of his hand and dismissed him from the chamber, and he did so without another word.

The topic bubbled in an almost rhythmic timing, and they were only minorly distracted from it at the birth of their eldest daughter four years on, Sansa. But it simmered when Cat took it upon her to silently feed misgivings into their daughter’s ears as she grew older, though she was far too small to understand the words, Ned knew the trouble it would bring later on. The other children, who learned of Jon’s status from their parents, would push unnecessarily rough against Jon’s shoulder which would throw him into the wall, or they’d dismiss him when he sought to join potential friends at the longtable for dinner only to out him for not being one of them. Special gifts were given to Robb in front of Jon’s eyes, and Cat made it a point to boast about it in front of him, which would send Jon to sit in his dark chambers for the rest of the day. 

But Robb would seek him out, pulling him from his isolation and they played together in the Godswood, and Robb would share his gifts and practice swordplay with him without condition. The Godswood became a safe haven for them both, a place where all guard and hostilities could be stripped and forgotten.    
  
Once Cat had a sturdy bow crafted for Robb, but his interest lay more in steel (much to his mother’s distaste) so he insisted that Jon keep it. At first Jon was afraid that he would be caught, and would not dare even let his fingers touch it, but Robb was convincing enough that he wouldn’t allow it. So they dug up a deep-rooted hole beneath the hollow of a tree in the Godswood and there Jon would tuck away the trinkets and weapons he wasn’t supposed to have. Ned had wished for a son, and he had never been more grateful for Robb’s unequivocal love for his adoptive brother than in Jon’s most dire times of need. Robb was a tender-hearted boy, good-natured by default, and strong-willed; all traits that could either guide him or break him in their partisan world.

When Robb wasn’t available, having been taken up by his mother for whatever reason she could think of to keep him busy, Ned would find moments to break away from his duties and play with him. One thing Jon found pleasing about his father was that he was rarely absent, even when Cat pushed for it to be so. It wasn’t often he would have spare time, but he would make it to be with his boys, both separate and together. 

When Ned’s administrative obligations wrung him dry, he would often put them on hold in order to use that time to spend with his boys, usually making up for it late into the night much to his wife’s displeasure. He always assured them that no matter how buried in parchment he became, or how many callings and visits from great Lords and Ladies he welcomed, his children were his utmost priority and nothing took precedence over that. It was an uncommon notion for a father to uptake such a present role, even going as far as suspending his more mundane responsibilities, in their society, and one that wasn’t without its wisecracks from friends and allies. But Ned strode with great spirit in light of it all, because he knew that at the end of each day, he was providing a genuine, intentional love for his family, and especially to Jon, who would have normally been absent of such affection. 

Jon had been only four years of age when he had finally asked Ned what a bastard was and why the children spoke so harshly of it to him. It blindsided him as he knew the day would come where he would hold this conversation with Jon, but expected he had many more years before that day would arrive. He half considered being honest with him, but knew he would risk Jon shouting it from the rooftops to his advantage, so instead he remained on course to help him understand his current truth without revealing the actual one just yet.

The day came when Ned realized he had to make a decision for Jon’s benefit. Cat was pregnant with their third child, and Robert had come to visit the North with his wife and children; he was as close to a brother as Ned could have asked for, but the thought of him within feet of Jon was difficult for him to swallow. Ned had ordered for Jon to remain deep within the Godswood to train alongside his swordmaster and to stay away from prying eyes of the royal family. Jon had become quite good with a blade even at his young age, and deep down Ned had begun lessons earlier on as he came to realize what the turbulent journey of a bastard’s life would serve him, even if only the ruse of such a life.

Lord Varys, Robert’s spymaster, convened with them later on, after Robert promised a marriage alliance betwixt his son Joffrey and Sansa, to which Ned was quick to dismiss given the years they would have until that were possible. The young king would speak so favorably of his lost love, Lyanna, but it never failed that Ned would notice Robert seemed more intent on his lust for her, for he could not remember her favorite flower or recall the color of her eyes. With a gleam in his eye, Robert told Ned how he dreamt every night about killing Rhaegar and the passion it fed him. What was worse was the manner in which he spoke of seeing that every last Targaryen was executed, and that two of them resided in Essos, and he would soon hire assassins to see to the task. 

It took all that Ned had to bite his tongue, though he was confident enough in his king’s presence to denounce such a merciless attack, but his words fell on deaf ears. Robert was nearly buzzing with the thrill of their deaths, and an unease churned within him. After all had left, Ned had called upon Varys, and they shared a long conversation which led to the topic of his friendship to Illyrio Mopatis, whom Ned had learned was housing both Daenerys Targaryen and her brother Viserys under his protection. All of this was unbeknownst to Robert and would continue to be so, and Ned swore to never utter it to anyone else. When Ned questioned why Varys was withholding what he knew from the king he served, he explained that while he held no special affection for anyone in his life, he could not live with himself if his word became the sword that executed children. That, and he held a certain affinity for the Targaryens, believing that the world was never held to a higher degree of prosperity in their reign. Even if it was achieved through fear of their mythical dragons, though now they fell extinct, at rest for eternity never to be seen again.

The Spider was clever and unsettling, but not quite as conniving as Cat’s childhood friend Petyr Baelish. If there was one man he distrusted most in the realm, it was the man dubbed Littlefinger. Varys tended to meddle in the same affairs that Littlefinger did, to stay two steps ahead of him. If he ever were to become aware of the whereabouts of the remaining Targaryen children, Littlefinger would be paid a thousand pretty golden dragons to feed the information to Robert.

But Ned studied Varys long and hard, and he shared how Viserys would likely plan to dethrone Robert when he gained a great army of his own, though it would be years yet before that would come to fruition if anyone would choose to follow him. There was a deviousness - a  _ ruthlessness _ \- in Viserys that unsettled Varys when Illyrio spoke of him. He was five years older than Jon, yet believed himself the rightful king already.

As Ned sat there absorbing all of this, he made his decision.

“I have a job for you, but no one can know. Not a soul; I don’t care how long you’ve known them, how well you  _ think _ you know them,” Ned had begun testily, his eyes never leaving the Spider’s.

Varys frowned himself into a pout. “My dear Lord Stark, you wound me. I cannot make a promise nor accept an offer if I do not know what it is, no matter the prize,” he said in a rather sing-song intonation.

Ned’s teeth pressed firmly together while he considered what he was about to say, but knew that he wouldn’t be walking away with Varys becoming a thorn in his side on the secretive matter. “I know that you serve Robert, and I am sure you do it well. But it only became that way when he pardoned you. I need to know that your loyalties, your true loyalties, still remain with the Targaryens. And I need to know that you will not relinquish those loyalties. Ever.”

“You speak boldly, my lord, but I do admit I admire it,” Varys said with an exaggerated sigh. “I serve the realm, and whomever I believe would be the wisest and most just ruler for the common people. Those are the ones who matter.”

Ned studied him long and hard, but Varys was practiced in his expertise and Ned knew that he wouldn’t be able to crack Varys as hard as he may try and it flustered him. “And who do you believe in at this very moment?”

A small smirk pulled the corner of his lips then. “I think you know the answer. Young Viserys Targaryen has some qualities of a king, but too many of his father’s. Already he is ill-tempered and contemptuous, and I’ll not see history repeat itself. So until he is removed, I will continue to receive word on how his sister, Princess Daenerys, fares in this cruel world.”

“And they reside with their mother?” Ned asked, his shoulders visibly relaxing a little more.

“Oh, no longer. Queen Rhaella died birthing Daenerys, which not only is challenging of itself, but a fault that Viserys lays on his new sister.”

Ned nodded smally, averting his eyes down to the table below his hand. So the princess’s mother died just as cruelly as Jon’s had; suffering in a bed bathed in blood, barely able to relish in the warmth of their new babe.

“Does this have anything to do with Lord Snow?”

His curtness caused Ned’s head to fly upward, his eyes wide and his brow creased at the center. “I don’t-”

“Calm yourself, my lord,” Varys gestured his hand in the air as if the light breeze would do as much. “You need not play coy with me. I was just as startled as anyone when I first learned of your...less than honorable mistake. But I was more disgruntled by the fact that anyone took your word as fact.”

Ned could only gape at the man, his mouth moving to speak, but words caught in his throat.

Leaning in closer as if others were in the room to hear, Varys lowered his voice. “The year you walked through those gates with Jon in rags, rumor had begun to spread. First it only slept in the walls of Dorne, talk of a young man carrying off an infant in the searing summer sun, in the direction that a dying woman could be heard screaming for miles. Then when Lord Reed went back to bring Lyanna’s body back north to rest in the crypt, and the Tower of Joy was demolished under your order, the word spread. Unusual circumstances it was, they said. It was known that you had gone off to seek your sister, and your time away from your wife created a distant tension as you were newly wed. Ned Stark never stepped foot in a brothel even in his most primitive years, so the mother could not have been a whore. He was far too engrossed in his duties as a husband, soon to be father, rife with worry over his sister having vanished, and war, to be bothered to seek the comforts of a tavern wench, so it could not have been her.”

Lips pressed firmly together, Ned studied Varys as his past played out before him but in the words of another. There was no point in denying it now; his eyes will have betrayed him by now.

“Most of all, Ned Stark was unapologetically honest and true to his word, so how could it be that in his absence, he took it upon himself to father a bastard child knowing the consequences of bedding an unwed stranger?” His eyebrows raised. “That integrity is the  _ only _ reason that nobody questioned your account. Isn’t that fascinating? And ironic; the one fictitious tale that nobody could believe, yet did anyway, and the one that would disgrace your character for years to come.”

It was all true, Ned thought. Yet it was never easy to hear, especially when it was spoken back to him. The initial panic that ensued within him when he burst into Lyanna’s room and the maroon blood that had near covered her bed whole, and her gown with it, yet when she made him pledge his promise, his instinct took precedent when the life left her eyes and the babe was brought into his arms. It wasn’t until he reached the threshold of Winterfell’s gates that he had realized, fully, the extent of the damage that his promise would entail, or how it would bring such a burden unto his family.

“Now, if tales be true, Rhaegar thrust himself upon her; he had been keen on her for some time before he snatched her away-”

“He did not rape her,” Ned cut in, his words sharp before he reset himself. For the first time, Varys looked stunned. Finally, something he  _ didn’t _ know. Ned was almost tempted to withhold the information just to relish in the fact. “They were wed; they loved each other.”

Varys’s jaw dropped open briefly, his eyes looking about the room as if searching for his next words. “My, my. You do realize the implication of all of this, yes? Jon is Rhaegar’s only living, trueborn son, which makes his claim even greater than his uncle Viserys.”

“I do understand it, and it’s part of the reason that brings me here to speak with you. I have a request to ask of you, hard as it is for the act in itself, but more especially that I’m entrusting a spymaster to keep his word,” Ned said with some edge.

“Oh,” Varys trilled, straightening in his seat. “Now I must know; nothing could be more exciting than my imaginings.”

\--- 

Ned contrived a deal with Lord Varys. Most would have called him absolutely mad if it had not involved a perceived bastard, but Ned promised a torturous death or a life of ruin, whichever Varys chose, if he should turn on his word. Additionally, he would be paid generously, and Ned would overfill his pockets to ensure his silence.

So three more days passed after Robert and his company returned to King’s Landing, and Ned was aboard a ship from White Harbor with Jon in tow. Jon had many questions, but his excitement to travel beyond Winterfell’s walls trumped his curiosity, to which Ned was grateful for. The departure had been smooth as planned; Ned fed Cat the idea that he would be bringing him to the Night’s Watch, more fit for a bastard; it may be true enough later on, but at present he was to be taken elsewhere.

Jon, beneath his raven, head full of thick curls, had hardly removed himself from the bow the whole ride, the scenery of the endless, open sea astounding to his wide grey eyes. After Ned adjusted the mast to fit the direction of the wind, eyes squinting at the beads of water that gathered on the sail and sprinkled his face, he made headway to stand beside Jon. A firm, almost fretful expression sat on the boy’s face.

“Where are we going, father?” Jon asked; it had been over two days since they departed, and Ned had thought perhaps the unending sea was beginning to bore him into thinking of other things.

“To a new home, for now,” Ned said solemnly, but was quick to reset his tone so as not to worry the boy when he looked at him. “Winterfell will always be your home, Jon. Never forget that. But this place we’re going...I have much to explain to you once we arrive. Can you bear to wait just a little longer?”

Jon nodded eagerly, then resumed his gaze on the bay as it split in half while the ship coursed through its surface. Ned watched him, knowing these would be some of his final moments with him for some time.

\---

Essos welcomed them in its warm red hues and its rich landscape. The enduring heat was both a welcome treat and inconvenient; the north didn’t know such climate, and though Ned was familiar with it, it was the first time that Jon came to experience it in his six years of life. When they sailed into the Bay of Pentos, they were greeted by a fleet of twenty warships near the coast. They had granted them entrance without trouble, which confirmed for Ned that communications had been successful between Varys and Illyrio Mopatis. He was true to his word. Before they made land, they shed their thick leathers in favor of lighter layers to favor the weather.

After they docked, two armed guards were quick to gather at either side of them, and Ned brought his hand around Jon’s small shoulders to keep him close while they collected their belongings. These parts were most unfamiliar to him and all faces were strangers, and he was unsure whom he could trust.

“Lord Eddard Stark?” One of them asked, his voice deep and booming.

“Aye,” he responded shortly, and Jon’s grey eyes peered under his dark brows up at the two burly men clad in armor. The plating reflected the rays of the sun and blinded him each time they turned a certain way.

“Magister Illyrio awaits. Please follow us.”

They did as beckoned, taking in the beauty of Pentos. The warm, orange hues were pleasant to their eyes, but a world a difference from Westeros and the North especially. The heat sweltered beneath their clothes before they had walked for long, and a long walk it had been. The guards remained silent besides the occasional exchange, and Ned never removed a protective hand from Jon’s shoulder while they passed through. Passersby and civilians sometimes stopped and slowed to gaze at their unusual appearance, likely wondering why they had been dressed in such strange wear or why their appearance adopted a rougher exterior. 

Gradually their surroundings transitioned from rusty reds to lush greens peppered by various hues of flowers, the presence of trees and foliage became unending once they reached a long, smooth stone path.The humidity of the city was alleviated somewhat, their breathing easing in its clarity. When they reached a guarded gate flanked by the thickness of trees on either side of them, some obscure words were exchanged before the golden gates were opened for them. Instantly they shut and locked behind them, and Ned looked up to find a grand entrance of a home greeting them a ways up.

Jon’s dubious gaze fixed upon the wide, white marble staircase up ahead, Ned offered him a gentle squeeze at his shoulder before a plump man dressed in a robe as red as the desert lands, his beard slightly unkempt but cut close to his jaw, and waves of ashen brown hair atop his head. He was a little older than Ned, though his appearance would have told him differently had he not known better. A friendly smile reached his eyes and he clapped his hands together with an eagerness when they stopped at the foot of the steps. Two Unsullied guards were posted at the wide, square entryway into the manse.

“Ah, my Lord Stark. I’ve heard some wonderful things about you from Lord Varys,” he chimed as he descended the stairs. Jon’s small hand gripped around Ned’s knee, visibly unnerved by this man’s forwardness.

“Magister Illyrio,” Ned greeted with an extension of his hand, keeping one foot rooted where Jon held onto him, and firmly shook the man’s beefy hand. “This is Jon,” he placed a hand on Jon’s head, and gently ushered him forward. He mimicked Ned’s gesture shyly, and Illyrio chuckled as he fit his little hand into his own.

“Little Lord, would you like to come and play with the other children?” He asked with a twinkle in his eye, and Jon’s eyes brightened before seeking his father’s permission. Ned smiled and he moved his head to signal his approval, and they followed behind Illyrio into the great house.

The first room was modest in size, but opened up into a much larger one where the ceilings were high and rounded, and split into three different halls. Each of their steps echoed off of the walls and sunlight poured in from the high windows, and it consistently smelled of fresh fruits and vegetation. They exited to the outside which took Ned’s breath away: the great stone balcony opened up to a looming, aqua sea shining infinitely before them, and narrow, wide steps descended further and further into different layers of landings until it eventually cascaded downward to the shallows of the bay. As was the entrance, greenery was of an abundance, and lush gardens enclosed the perimeter at either side.

“Viserys, Daenerys!” Illyrio called out, and within a few moments two silver-headed children near Jon’s age erupted from the gardens to their gardens to their right, fresh out of breath from their play, but Daenerys holding her arm with her mouth downturned when they approached. If Ned had not known better, he would have thought Jon’s identity a mistake. He resembled neither of his relatives.

Both sets of amethyst eyes centered on their guests. The boy, Viserys, was taller and leaner, a towering presence beside her. He had a narrow face and pointed chin, his stare hardened and challenging. Already Ned understood what Varys meant in the boy’s demeanor; his attendance felt cold when his eyes locked on Jon’s. But Daenerys, with her long, wavy locks tucked behind her ears, broke into a wide, toothy grin at the sight of Jon, but a discreet nudge of her brother’s elbow in her ribs caused her to reconstruct her expression into something more flat, resembling his own but softer.

“Please allow me to introduce you to Prince Viserys Targaryen, and his sister, the Princess Daenerys Targaryen,” Illyrio’s hands opened palms-up, and Ned bowed his head, Jon following after a gentle persuasion by his father.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I am Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and this is Jon Snow,” Ned responded politely, his eyes more fixed on the boy’s reaction, but he only glowered. Daenerys curtsied in response while her brother stayed still, and Illyrio took a few paces closer and brought her arm into his hand.

“Ouch!” She exclaimed suddenly, and he frowned.

“What happened to your arm, Princess? It’s purple and swollen,” he noted, releasing his loose grip on her. Her head hung low, her eyes only briefly considering her brother beside her until she straightened herself. An effort was made for her to bring her shoulders back and her chin up, and Ned had never seen such discipline. He wondered where she had learned it, and why.

“Viserys and I were playing in the trees, and I thought I could climb to the highest branch, but I fell,” she said with over-enthusiasm, stealing a quick look of Viserys once more. Ned was uncomfortable with their dynamic already, and quietly was pleased to have taught Jon how to wield a sword at an early age.

Illyrio sighed and placed a hand on the girl’s back, guiding her toward the door. “Go on, Serra will see that you’re taken care of.”

Daenerys half ran inside, and Illyrio returned his attention to Ned, clapping his hands together. “Would you care to join us for some wine in the gardens? We have much to speak of.”

And so they did, and the children were slowly getting to know one another, though Viserys was less keen to participate but did so under the watchful eye of his keeper. Ned came to notice that Daenerys took a special interest in making Jon feel comfortable, and some relief flooded him, though he still worried over the other.

Illyrio kept his voice low when they spoke. “So the boy doesn’t know yet, then?”

Ned kept his eyes on Jon as he spoke. “I plan to tell him before I leave here. I think it’s as good a time as any, and I’d only wish him to hear it from me.”

Illyrio followed Ned’s gaze to supervise the children, Daenerys and Jon crouched over some unique flower bed and was explaining to him how she grew them. Viserys sat upon a large boulder off to the side. “You do know that they won’t be here forever?”

Ned nodded. “I’ve secured someone who is willing to get him back across the Narrow Sea and to Castle Black when the time comes. I expect he’ll be one of the youngest stewards to accompany them.”

Illyrio grimaced. “You would secure him to that devilry? The Watch is for life, my Lord. As an exile he cannot remain in one place for too long, else he risks being found out.”

“As a sworn brother he would be protected by his own. The Wall is well-secured, and not many are willing to go so far north,” Ned said a little sternly, not entirely at ease that this man was questioning his decisions. He had thought long and hard about Jon’s path since he brought him to Winterfell.

“There’s been talk of wildling sightings near there,” Illyrio said. “Ruthless men they are. Pillaging and raping as they please; they are the Dothraki of the north.”

Ned glanced at the man as he straightened himself in his chair, picking at a sliver of cheese on the lush platter spread before them. He hadn’t cared much for the tartness of the wine, but sipped at it in kindness to their host’s graciousness. “How long will you shelter them?” He nodded to the siblings, chewing.

“Until the moment we receive word that Robert’s hired assassins grow closer. For now, I enjoy their company, and hope they will thrive here for as long as possible.”

“And do they know? About Jon?”

“Yes,” Illyrio said. “Though they’ve sworn not to make any mention of it until he is aware. Do you not wish to let him stay here? The three of them together may stand to be a force not to reckon with. He would be with family…”

“No. If they’re all in one place, it only makes it that much easier for Robert to find and kill them with one swing of a sword. At least this way we can throw his scent off the trail.”

Illyrio smiled with a small nod, sipping at his beverage. “Well, if you change your mind, he is more than welcome to stay. The Princess appears to have taken a liking to him already.”

Ned couldn’t help but smile widely. Daenerys was in the midst of holding Jon’s hands out and placing a lilac flower in his hands, and he brought it to his nose to sniff it, and they shared a giggle while Viserys looked on.

“What of the prince? He looks as if he would toss Jon into the sea if he could,” Ned said dully, his eyes hardening at the boy. Other than his apparent distaste for his guests, something about Viserys unsettled him.

Illyrio sighed, scratching his beard. “He is most unhappy to find out that his place in line for the Iron Throne has been possessed, rightfully, by another. But, if you say Jon will make his oath with the Night’s Watch, perhaps he will ease his misgivings…”

If it were appropriate for Ned to roll his eyes, he would have. He never understood the obsession for that dismal chair and all the carnage that surrounded it, and it was unfathomable to him that a boy as young as Viserys already had his intentions set on it. Even if Jon wasn’t destined for the Night’s Watch, it was not in his character to wield such power, even at his young age. Even so, the idea of someone as removed and passionless as Viserys brought back nightmares of their father, Aerys II Targaryen, who now yielded the epithet as Mad King Aerys for his atrocious endeavor to set the capital afire with Wildfire. Who burned Ned’s own brother and father alive in a vile manner. That was before Ser Jaime Lannister, a member of the Kingsguard, betrayed his monarch and slayed Aerys.

Jon watched Daenerys with great interest as she plucked a dusty pink rose from the flower bed and brought it to her nose before sharing it with Jon, whose head craned away from the scent and sent Daenerys into a fit of giggles. Ned’s lips spread into a thin smile, a comfort washing over him that at least now he would have a friend.

\---

That evening after Illyrio had a delightful supper spread for them, a serving maid showed them to where Jon’s chambers would be. It was down the hall from the other children, where the halls circled in a long rectangular shape, sturdy iron protecting the edges of the opening that centered the walkways. When Ned looked down below into the gap, it descended a couple of stories with wide, stone stairs trailing in a dizzying decline. The maid opened the heavy door for them and after she guided them through the layout of the chamber, quietly left them to their own.

It was beyond a modest sized chamber; far larger and tidied and grand than Jon’s at WInterfell. Somehow that thought made Ned sad, that this stranger’s home had more riches and splendor to offer than Ned could give him in the North, but he quickly shook away the thought as he settled Jon’s satchel against the wall beside his oversized bed. Jon walked the length of the room, musing at the textures of the soft yellow walls, the intricacy of the chest and the plush red chaise at the foot of the bed. The stone floors beneath his feet were warm but chilling, and the sconces were lit along the walls to cast an entrancing glow. A rounded doorway with a glass doorway lay at the end of the room across from them, the deep blues and blacks of night masking all views except the gentle rippling of the bay beneath the brilliance of the moonlight.

“Come, Jon. Let’s get you ready for bed,” Ned called softly after allowing him to wander his new quarters. Jon did as bid, lifting his arms so that Ned could remove his soiled tunic to replace it with another, followed by soft trousers. Ned rolled up the travel-beaten clothing into a ball and set it aside while he rummaged through the sack. They had traveled lightly, but Ned was sure to have packed the essentials from home. He removed a large pelt of wolves fur and set it in his lap. Jon’s grey eyes looked at him curiously. “Don’t tell Old Nan, but I managed to knick this from one of the linen closets. To remind you of home, even though it may be too warm here.”

Jon’s toothy grin reached out to wrap the furs around his small frame as the ends of it rolled into a puddle at his feet, and Ned breathed a small laugh through his nose. Next, a sword that matched Jon’s stature was revealed, and Jon gasped and let the blanket fall to the floor. “But how-?”

“Don’t worry,” Ned assured. “Robb told me how much you loved this and he fetched it from your favorite ash tree. He wanted you to have a parting gift to remember him by, until I am able to bring him back here to visit with you.”

Jon took the blade into his hands and smiled warmly, then his mouth downturned. “I wish Robb could be here, too. That other boy doesn’t like me.”

Ned never took his eyes off of Jon while he continued to burrow his hand in the sack. “Don’t let him intimidate you. I didn’t bring you all this way so that he could push you around. He’s only...threatened by you.”

A deep crease formed between Jon’s brow. “Is it because of my sword?”

Ned chuckled at his naivety, carefully treading on how he was going to transition into the conversation he had been waiting to have with him for six years. “No, although if it’s warranted...just be kind. But don’t let him torment you. Go on, let me see your best swing.”

Excited, Jon turned on his heel to find an open space, holding the hilt of the sword in each hand, fingers dancing until it felt right. With his legs parted slightly, he broke into a dance of three different swings, and Ned’s eyebrows lifted in fascination. “Very good! I’d say you’re better than any little lord could possibly dream of being.”

Jon’s cheeks reddened slightly, and Ned extended his hand to bring Jon back to him. When he did, he lifted him by his underarms and sat him on the edge of the bed, sheathing his sword and leaning the pommel against the wall at bedside. Ned sunk in beside him, taken aback by the plushness below them. It was no wonder Illyrio didn’t look as weary as he should have with the task he had to uptake in keeping two Targaryen children safe under his wing. Ned presumed one could sleep half a lifetime with such comforts.

“Jon, there are some things I need you to understand. It’s...a lot to take in, but I need you to hear me out,” Ned said quietly, shifting so that he could face Jon now.    
  
After a moment, Jon’s eyes found his father’s, his face solemn. “What is it?”   
  
When it seemed he would accept Ned’s approach, Ned collected a long breath. His eyes searched the salmon hued floors for a moment, collecting his hands in his lap. “I’m sure you’ve wondered why I’ve brought you here, specifically. It probably seems like a bit of an exaggeration to sail off to another country to escape the...misconduct of Winterfell. That bit isn’t entirely untrue, but...it’s just-”

“Please, father. I’m nearly a man; I just want to know.” Jon’s forwardness captured Ned’s attention, and an inescapable laugh erupted from him as he came to wrap his arm around the boy.

“A man already, hm? Well, I suppose you can handle it then,” Ned continued, the laughter dying in his chest. “Viserys and Daenerys are, well...your uncle and aunt, actually.” He figured that feeding him pieces bit by bit would soften the blow, but only confusion smeared Jon’s face now.

“But, Daenerys is my age,” he surmised.

“Yes,” Ned said calmly. “This is going to be very difficult to understand. Daenerys had a brother named Rhaegar. Rhaegar married my sister, Lyanna. They both had a child, named Aegon Targaryen.”

He watched as Jon’s head bobbed as he tried to calculate it all, and once he did, he looked up at Ned. “What’s that to do with me?”

The fist that clenched Ned’s heart compressed further, and he looked at Jon now. “ _ You _ are Aegon. Aegon Targaryen.”

Very, very slowly realization crept onto Jon’s face, and he pushed himself a little further back until he could sit against a pillow larger than himself, a constant furrow upon his brow. “But you must always be known as Jon Snow, do you understand?”

“But...why?”

Ned inhaled a long sigh through his nose. “Because Lyanna was betrothed to another. To King Robert. And it was his understanding that Lyanna had...unwillingly been stolen off by Rhaegar and bore him a child against her wishes. But after Robert started a war over it, it was found out that they were lawfully, and lovingly, wed. Because of this...Robert has sworn to be rid of every last Targaryen that breathes air. He...killed Rhaegar on the Trident before I could bring him word of Lyanna’s confession before she passed.”

Jon’s face was hardened as he digested what his father fed him. It was difficult for Ned to give him the whole truth without startling him, but he would always need to be on high alert from here on out. “That’s why when the King visited Winterfell, you kept me in the Godswood to practice with my sword?”

Nodding, Ned studied the boy hard, waiting for any sign of anger or resentment...but none came. He expected, however, it would resonate with him a little later in life. “I don’t expect he would recognize you as who you are, but I couldn’t take that risk. You look every bit a Stark, thank the Gods. He simply believed you had been sent away on the notion that you were a bastard, and that you were not to be subjected to the likes of our royal guests. Do you understand why I had to do what I did for your protection? Even despite...despite all of the suffering you endured in what should have been your home?”

Graciously, Jon only smiled and nodded in return, and Ned felt his eyes begin to mist. He averted his eyes to distract himself, to recover, but Jon was already at his side, his mop of raven curls resting on his arm. It was hopeless now, and Ned let a few tears trail down his cheeks, but not before drying them instantly. He didn’t want Jon to see him as weak; this was a pivotal moment in both their lives, and he needed to be the support he always strived so hard to be for his nephew and adoptive son.

Ned secured an arm around him and pulled him close. “You’ll always be my son, to me. I promised your mother I would do all that I could to protect you. It breaks my heart that I have to leave you here, but I promise to visit as often as I can.”

Suddenly Jon pushed away from him, and now his face was betraying him, his brows arched and tears welling. “You mean you’re not to stay here?”

If Ned’s heart hadn’t already been shattered to pieces, it had now. The despair that flooded him now could very well have killed him in that moment. “No, Jon. I’m needed at home. I’m Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North...I can’t be those things across the Narrow Sea.”

Tears overfilled Jon’s eyes and now his expression resembled anger. “You’re needed  _ here _ ! You can’t just bring me to a stranger’s house and leave me! Why can’t Robb be Lord of Winterfell?”

  
Ned’s words caught in his throat and his pinched the bridge of his nose. “Robb is a boy, Jon, just as you. Someday he will be a great Lord, but until that day comes, it is my duty.” He slid closer to Jon but was refused any further contact, and Ned respected his wishes. This wasn’t what he expected to upset Jon the most, but it tore at him just the same.

They sat in silence for a long time, Jon reminiscing the long, dreary days at Winterfell when he would wake up each morning wishing he could remain in his stiff bed. A day when he would be welcomed by those whom he shared a home with, but it never came, except when Robb was involved. He missed Robb and wished that if he couldn’t have his father here, the least he could be granted was his brother. Or was it cousin? Either way, he grew weary, and was broken away from his thoughts when Ned slid off the edge of the bed onto his feet.

“I should get some rest, as should you. I have a long journey ahead of me tomorrow,” he said quietly, a hint of sadness coating his departing words. When Jon didn’t move nor speak, Ned walked the length of the room to the door. Just as his hand enclosed on the handle, Jon asked for him to wait.

Ned looked over his shoulder, and Jon hesitated briefly. “Would it be un-lordlike if I asked you to sleep in here, with me, tonight?”

The small, perhaps frightened, boyish voice from the bed mended some of the broken remnants of Ned’s heart then. “Let me just change out of these clothes,” he said in return, leaving briefly to his own borrowed chambers.

Jon sat quietly in a deep thought, and Ned returned in no time at all, walking to each candle and extinguishing their flame. Jon folded down the light cotton cover and buried his legs beneath them as a gentle breeze filtered in through two small, square cutout windows near the balcony. Ned crawled onto the bed and rested his back against a lush pillow. Jon slid closer, and Ned wrapped his arm around his shoulders while Jon curled up beside him.

“May I still call you father?” Jon inquired, a wide grin of comfort spreading across Ned’s lips in the dark.

“I was hoping that part wouldn’t change.”

“Aegon sounds like a hero’s name.”

Ned allowed himself a small chuckle and said, “there have been heroic Aegons, of sorts.”

“But I’m not a hero,” Jon returned.

“You’re still young, yet. But even so, you’re not required to take on such a reputation,“ Ned added. “But, I will tell you, by right, you would fall next in line as King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jon’s heart palpitated against the cage of his chest, craning his chin to see his father. “I don’t want that. Must I?”

“That will be up to you, Jon. There is such a thing as abdicating, wherein you voluntarily refuse the crown, and it goes to another. That other person would be Viserys, so decide wisely,” Ned said in partial jest.

There was a beat of silence while Jon absorbed all of this. “I don’t want to rule, at least not now...but perhaps it would be fun to wave the idea that I do over Viserys’s head,” Jon said facetiously, igniting a chuckle from Ned.

“You did not hear this from me, but perhaps that’s what that little Lord needs to stay grounded. From what I hear, and from what I’ve observed of him already, he could use a little contention to deflate his golden head.”

“Father!” Jon erupted into a stream of giggles that Ned indulged in himself, and once the laughter simmered out, they laid in a tranquil silence for a few moments longer.

Jon nuzzled in a little closer, and Ned brought the blanket up further to tuck beneath his arm. “Could you tell me about my mother?”

Settling further into the coziness of the bed below, Ned laid his head back against the cushion of the headboard, most unused to these types of delicacies in a bed chamber when he was used to his head thudding against solid wood.

And so, Ned recollected his most treasured memories of his beloved sister Lyanna. Of her fierce courage, her boyishness, her beauty, and how he believed her to have the wolf’s blood in her slight manner of wildness. Her love of blue winter roses was so revered that many townsfolk began to refer her as the Blue Rose of Winterfell. She was strong-willed and emphatic in mind, and would have wielded a sword had their father consented to such. Ned spoke of her so long that he hadn’t noticed Jon was long asleep, and with a kiss on the head, Ned bid his son sweet dreams and drifted off into some of his own.   
  



	2. Among the High Tides at Dragonstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution: mentions of some physical abuse, and one instance/scene of it.

**282 AC**

The tide of Blackwater Bay nearly swallowed Dragonstone whole during the worst summer storm in memory. The waves clamored so rough against the castle, Ser Willem Darry, the Targaryen master-at-arms, expected the walls to fracture and for the lot of them to sink to their deaths alongside their ships.

But as the horrific storm brewed, the stone walls and floors shook violently in the roaring thunder above as it was met with the clashing screams of Queen Rhaella Targaryen enduring a difficult labor. Along with Prince Viserys, only a boy of five, they were the only occupants of the castle grounds alongside one servant and a wet nurse, sent away by King Aerys as news of Prince Rhaegar’s death reached King’s Landing. Rhaella had been newly pregnant when she had set sail, and in the time that followed, Aerys had been murdered by Ser Jaime Lannister, a member of the Kingsguard.

Ser Willem sat at Rhaella’s bedside, urging her encouraging words of comfort, though he was certain she could not hear him. Her wails filled the halls long and deep, and though he had sent Viserys away, he knew the boy would be listening just outside the door. He loved his mother tenderly, and had offered to help in any which way he could, but Ser Willem did not wish to see his dying mother in the state she was in.

Though she used every remaining ounce of her being to birth her child, her pallor transcended from a glistening pink to a cold blue whenever she relaxed to breathe. Sweat blanketed all over her skin, and even in the thin gown she wore to relieve some of the heat from her body. When she could sit back in desperate gasps, pausing before another push, her eyes were widened and fixed in the black void of the high ceilings while the lightning outside illuminated the room, giving them the illusion of daylight.

Finally, after what Ser Willem to believed to have been hours passed, the wails of the new princess replaced her mother’s, and Ser Willem was quick to tend to her, wrapping her in a thick woolen blanket to keep the chill at bay. The bed’s pale yellow sheets had been painted red, and he wondered just how much loss of blood Rhaella had suffered. He rushed to Rhaella’s side, her head lolled to the side,inaudible and shallow breaths pushing between her parted lips. Her eyes were barely open, and hadn’t changed much when he brought the baby into her view.

“Your Grace, you have a daughter. What will you call her?” He had asked, desperate that his words reached her before she would leave them. Leave him to look after the safety of what would remain of House Targaryen.

It took an effort for her to catch her breath, twice, three times, before finally, she breathed a clear “D...Daenerys.”

A gentle smile crossed his face as Daenerys’s cries simmered and her little eyes sought her mother. He would have sworn that Rhaella summoned a smile on her own lips before her body relaxed and fell limp, the light in her eyes dimming and breath halting.

Ser Willem never forgot the screams of heartbreak when he had gone to Viserys, to present him with his new baby sister, and to announce the passing of their mother. He taken to pacing the halls just as was anticipated, and fell hard onto his knees at the news. Nothing Ser Willem did could comfort the boy, and he had expressed no interest in caring for Daenerys in the midst of his mourning.

Not long had passed after it all that the newly-appointed king, Robert Baratheon, ordered for his brother, Stannis, to claim Dragonstone. Before Stannis would reach their shores, however, Ser Willem led with the children where he would care for them in the Free City of Braavos. For a few years the Targaryen children prospered in the safe hands of Ser Willem and his servants, but an illness had fallen over him. As Daenerys grew older, she paid him frequent visits to his bedside, and she had noted how he scowled and shouted at his servants, but never raised his voice with her. He clung onto her sweet naivety, the last memory he would die with as he succumbed to his sickness.

The servants took it upon themselves to steal what worthy belongings Ser Willem had, and had banished both Viserys and Daenerys onto the streets to fend for themselves for some times. They had gone from soft feather beds to dirt-ridden, hard grounds of the Free Cities. They were never able to bathe, and so bugs were a perpetual problem, leaving them with blistering bites and ceaseless skin rashes. Viserys took to begging passersby and selling whatever remained of their possessions when their pleas went unheard. The dragon pendant necklace that Ser Willem had unlatched from Rhaella’s neck when she had died had been gifted to Daenerys, and she kept it secured around her own neck with the pendant hidden beneath the fabric of her dress. It was one piece they could not sacrifice for fear that the sigil of their house would give them away to potential lurkers in the name of King Robert. Whatever food they did acquire was split into meager portions so that they could assure enough rations until they reached the next vendor in their continual movement across the Free Cities.   
  


Viserys wasn’t always cruel to Daenerys. In fact, he adopted an almost motherly-like responsibility in ensuring her wellbeing when they were without a home, often giving her his portion of what miniscule food portions they could beg for on the streets. He had been quick to nurture her when she had nightmares nearly every night, but she also mourned for the mother and father she never knew, and for her friend Ser Willem. She wanted to go back to the home with the red door and the lemon tree that grew beneath her chamber window, filling the air with a sweet, citrus scent.   
  
But silently, Viserys did the same, the recurring echoes of their mother’s screams filling his head incessantly.

It was one particular afternoon when they had not eaten for three days that Viserys arrived to the conclusion that he would need to sacrifice something precious to him if they were to survive. They reached a market where he had sold their mother’s crown, the very last valuable that he carried in memory of Rhaella. In exchange they were awarded enough gold dragons to fill his hands, and they were well fed for a time, but something in Viserys shifted in that moment. Daenerys had been too young to understand why he had suddenly relocated the blame of their mother’s death unto her, or why he had to grab her arm so hard it left bruises in the shape of his fingers, or why certain things she did or said angered him. Often he would threaten her with the idea that she would ‘wake the dragon’ within him if she overstepped boundaries, but those boundaries were unclear. In a time where they should have been wrapped up in the sanctuary of their mother’s love, they endured what was handed to them instead, and it took a harsh toll on her brother.

As she grew older she could only presume that perhaps he not only resented her for the mortality of their mother, but those disheartening folk that laughed in his face when he begged for something to fill their bellies, or when he had very little to offer in exchange for a proper shelter. That maybe the tiny morsels of the reputation of their father that Viserys fed to her over time had taken a deep root within him; their father was vile and abusive and heavily mistreated their mother from the day they were wed. Viserys explained to Daenerys that while Rhaella did her best to keep him busy, distracted, it was impossible not to be exposed to his demeaning commands or the whispers of men passing by that their father was less than gentle with their mother. But as was expected of women, Rhaella always did her duty as a wife, despite her broken marriage.

Daenerys believed these things chipped away at Viserys over time, and when he had parted with the very last sentimental treasure of their mother’s crown, the floodgates of his internalized misery were freed. Even still, though she sympathized with him, she grew afraid of him very quickly. He could no longer be trusted as an emotional guide, as once she proved herself vulnerable, he would take advantage of that and put her down until she questioned her own sense of self-worth. If she did something just wrong enough, it would escalate to a physical attack.

As she became more cognizant, he would dutifully and arrogantly remind her that someday they would be wed, as was custom in their family line. The thought of replicating the marriage of their parents frightened her, and the images found themselves invading the plethora of other nightmares that frequented her sleep. It wasn’t until Magister Illyrio took them in that his violence lessened, now that he was under a watchful eye, but it did not cease entirely. Plenty of times they were guarded off from prying eyes and whatever misstep she did recently, he would punish her, though he was more careful to not leave visible marks, so instead he left her ribs and back marred, or he would pull her hair until her eyes watered.

Illyrio and his wife, Serra, were a breath of sweet, fresh air after two years of living on the streets of the Free Cities. They traveled frequently, for Viserys was under the understanding that King Robert already had sent assassins to execute them; another thing that preyed upon Daenerys’s fragile mind day and night.

But when Illyrio brought them news that their brother, Rhaegar, had a living son, and that he would be coming to Pentos to stay with them, Daenerys found herself nearly jumping in glee, whereas Viserys fell into an almost black rage. He tried to tell Illyrio that they could not accept the boy, that him being with them increased their chances of being found out. If he was unruly, he would draw too much unwanted attention onto their location. Deep down, Daenerys knew that with word of Rhaegar’s heir existing meant Viserys’s claim to power of the Iron Throne was denounced. For years he had sworn to seek vengeance against King Robert and all who allied with him, though it would be some time for he did not have the means nor the strength to do so. Thus far, he could hardly obtain the sympathies from common folk, let alone an army.

When Jon initially arrived, he had refused to leave his father’s leg without gentle convincing from him. Viserys didn’t do much in the way of helping that, but Daenerys took to him right away. He was shy and reserved until he had realized she wasn’t going to leave him alone; his presence was a warm distraction from their woes and from the repulsiveness of her brother.

As Jon was raised in the North, where he sad it rarely ever got even mildly warm, she had much to teach him. She showed him the lush gardens and all of her favorite flowers, all of which he had never seen before, but told her how Winterfell boasted its own blue winter rose that could only be found in its own gardens. He had never set foot in sand before, nor a body of water outside of Winterfell’s hot springs, so she would frequently bring him down to play at the small section that Illyrio had fenced off for them to enjoy. All of the food was new to him; the clothing was thinner and cooler to fit the summer heat. He took it all with grace, and their relationship blossomed. Whenever she was with Jon, she was away from Viserys, so she spent all of her time with him until they were called in for sleep. In that time her skin healed, and she never indulged Jon in Viserys’s treatment of her. She trusted him, but feared retaliation, that her brother would somehow find out she spoke of it and that she would pay for it two-fold.

It pleased her that Jon found he could trust her just the same, and as their friendship nourished, he gradually fed her with bits of his home life in Winterfell. He made mentions of his heavily strained relationship, or lack thereof, with Catelyn Stark and anyone else who was not Ned or Robb or now little Arya. Even the servants of Winterfell cast wary looks at him, but his Old Nan took a favoring to him and would spoil him with kitchen sweets when she could. Still, Daenerys could read on Jon’s face that he was restraining himself from confessing the degree of hardship he endured, sometimes abandoning the topic at all or leaving strange, unfilled gaps. She did not push him, however, for fear he would become out of her reach.   
  


But as Jon settled in to his new life, Viserys had found ways to punish her still, sometimes taking his anger out on her when she had done nothing to provoke it. He smartened up and found ways in which to isolate her from the others and would spit harsh words and bruise her pale skin. He made threats that she was unsure were empty promises or an intimidation tactic, as there was never a predictable pattern in his behavior. It was all defined by what triggered his anger that one day and to what extent.

It had been nearly one year since Jon had been with them, and one afternoon in particular when everyone else was otherwise preoccupied and Viserys brought her to the windowless side of the manse, a firm grip on her chin. She knew she had misspoke during their lunch, when Illyrio made an innocent, passing comment to her about her kindness and ability to naturally warm to people. This lead to a further compliment that she would, someday, make her future husband very happy, for she was a rare gem. Viserys had scoffed at what he deemed a ridiculous statement and did not falter when he said, “her future husband is sitting beside her; there is no reason to shower her with praise. I know her best, and I will know her better.”

His retort sent a chill down her spine amidst the summer heat, and her stomach churned so violently, and with her head spinning so rapidly that in her moment of weakness, she uttered, “I don’t want you to know me at all.”

Viserys was practiced; his face barely gave anything away, but she did not miss his knuckles spread white over the tightening grip of his fork. When her lilac eyes found Illyrio’s, she pleaded silently with him as if hoping he would understand her worldless cry that she would be reprimanded if left alone.

“No worries, Princess,” Illyrio had cooed, and already she was deflated. He didn’t read her correctly, instead misplacing her worry for trepidation that she would become betrothed to a blood relative. Little did he know that she had been well-informed of this from a young age. “You are in safe hands with your brother, and at least you will not be wed to a complete stranger.”

He had gone on to explain the Targaryen tradition of marriage, but her attention was set on the vein bulging in Viserys’s strained temple and how he cut his meat with more force than necessary. Illyrio’s voice was only a blur, until he announced he would go check the ravenry for any news from Westeros. Dany felt her mouth move to make any excuse to request Illyrio stay in her company, but the moment he vanished around the corner of the patio and out of ear shot, Viserys’s bony hands gripped the soft flesh of her upper arm and nearly dragged her across the masonry, fumbling her own feet to keep up.

She was brought into the grassy path that was sandwiched between the manse and a thicket of trees, and already she could feel the bruising beneath his grip. Usually he was cautious not to leave visible marks, but he was seething, his jaw clenched as his face drew in mere centimeters from her own. The smell of his breath made her nauseas, and he shifted his hand to her chin and forced her eyes upon his.

“Imputent brat; you dare speak of me in that manner? You would be dead without me; you owe me your  _ life _ ,” he hissed, his grip tightening further around her jaw when she tried to crane away from him.

Something stirred in her then; she didn’t know where the courage came from, but before she could halt any impulse, his knee was brought sharply up into her brother’s groin where he doubled over with a grunt, and she stood wide-eyed down at him. What came next was mild compared to what flashed through her mind then, as he faltered back onto his feet, his own purple eyes reddening in a frothing anger as he tore at her summer gown, ripping the precious and fragile silk on one side down to her ribcage.

She dared not yell, but could not restrain the whimper that escaped her as tears poured down her cheeks and her small arms covered the side of her that was opened bare. Just as he had reached for her hair, she squeezed her eyes shut only to thrust them open when a heavy thud crashed before her. Her eyes had searched frantically into focus to see that Jon had thrown himself into Viserys, and now stood before her with his sword drawn. He ad taken up sparring lessons from a newly-appointed master-at-arms, Lazaro, a proficient mercenary of Essos, and was returning from said lesson.

Dany’s chest tightened like a fist; she wondered how Jon had gotten by without being seen, perhaps he had taken a path through the trees and hidden in its thick shadows. She wondered if he had seen her humiliation, but he must have to react in the way that he did. She feared for his life then, but Viserys did not have the fortitude to challenge Jon, at least not while he was disarmed. That was just it, however: Viserys was very much a coward, and preyed on her because she was meek and nimble and easily manipulated. He knew just where to strike, without need for a weapon, to break her.

“Don’t touch her. Don’t touch her ever again,” Jon warned in what sounded to Dany like a growl, his free hand outward as if creating a barrier for her. He prodded his sword closer to Viserys, whose chest was heaving and his eyes white and wide looking between each of them.

“I could have your head for threatening a king,” Viserys bristled, his brow so creased it almost knitted together.

“You’re not the king, nor are you the next rightful one,” Jon said plainly, and with every retort, Dany feared for Jon’s safety, for her own. Her breath grew shallow at his words, only imagining the thoughts that must be running rampant in her brother’s mind now.

But at this, Viserys was wordless, and he shuffled back up onto his feet when lllyrio came into view on the patio once more. “What is going on? I heard shouting,” he demanded, his focus particularly on Jon and Dany.

It came as easy as breathing, Dany’s response: “We were just playing, and a tree caught my dress.” Her face remained unmoved, just as it did each time she needed to protect the secret that was her brother’s assaults.

Illyrio’s eyes narrowed. “Then why does Jon look as if he wishes to spear your brother? I’ve never known these two little lords to mingle.”

He had her there; Viserys and Jon only interacted when it was absolutely necessary, and even then it wasn’t exactly pleasant. The less they communicated, the more tense the atmosphere became when they did join together, and they spat frequently. Jon sheathed his blade into the scabbard at his hip. “We got a little carried away,” she added, offering a sweet smile.

Sighing, Illyrio gestured for Dany to c ome to him, as she continued to hide the exposed side where the silk had ripped. “Come, darling. Give this to Serra and she will see that it is sewn up for you.”

Dany did as was bid, and Illyrio returned to the boys with a stern face. “I will have no more of this,” he gestured between each of them. “You are family, like it or no. It’s time you begin to act as such.”

Illyrio turned on his heel after a long, hard gaze at them, but only Jon nodded while Viserys tried to collect himself. His hair had been a disheveled, silvery mess, and as he steadied his breathing, he followed behind the magister into the manse.

* * *

That evening, while everyone was tucked away in their quarters, Dany was huddled up in her own bed, crying silent sobs into her knees. Her arms were tightly wrapped around her legs, the left arm donning oblong, purple bruises and along the side of her ribcage were pink scratch marks. She had chosen a sleep gown wisely that night, one with long sleeves that ended at her wrists, to avoid further questions.

It was late into the night, the moon set high in the black pitch of sky, when a knock on her door, so gentle she could barely hear it, sounded. Reflexively she flinched, and her heart was now in her throat, though she knew if it had been Viserys he would not have knocked. Her head lifted and she hesitated answering for a long moment; only faintly could she see a small movement of shadow in the crack between door and floor. She swung her legs over the bed and looked at her reflection in the mirror; there would be no masking her swollen, reddened eyes unless her late night guest wished to wait quite a long time outside her door.

Gently, she turned the knob, stopping just before she knew it would creak, only to find Jon there, his expression wrought with worry. She wondered if she had failed in subduing her cries, or if it was because she had refused his invitation to catch fish with him earlier that evening. Either way, she stepped aside to let him in, knowing that her appearance would only garner further attention tomorrow if not addressed now.

But no matter what Jon saw, or what he thought he saw that day, she would deny it. She would deny its existence because she knew that if Viserys ever found out, it only made her punishment that much worse. With how Jon reacted earlier, she couldn’t risk his well-being, couldn’t harbor enough distress for the both of them. To her pleasant surprise, he had only inquired as to what had happened, and she easily brushed it off as nothing to concern himself with, although his eyes lingered on where her hidden marks were burning beneath her gown.

Instead of dwelling on it, she had asked him, in a small voice, if he would stay with her that night, hoping to fend off the nightmares that haunted her dreams every night. What she wouldn’t tell him was that she grew anxious that VIserys would find his way into her room; she did not know what he might do to her, but she was vulnerable in a slumber.

To her relief, Jon happily agreed, and they climbed into the comfort of her warm bed, sinking into the feathers below. Each of them faced the other, and even in the darkness Dany could see the black pits of Jon’s eyes staring at her; surely he had a thousand questions, but he did not press her. Easing in his company, she closed her eyes, and Dany had felt safe for one more night.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long-ish wait; I'm wanting to make this as perfect as possible, so my updates might be a *little* more spaced out to ensure that! Also, I promise this will have less gloomy bits, just have to lay down the groundwork for all that difficult stuff ❤


	3. Misadventures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear friends - sorry for this long pause between updates; it's been a CRAZY last few weeks, but I'm back on the horse as they say. Hope you enjoy this one - more little Dany and Jon bonding times.
> 
> Just as a heads up, these earlier chapters will jump around a bit in time until we reach present day Dany and Jon, just so nobody gets confused or lost as to why so many time jumps! I'll always notate that in the beginning of the chapters so you know exactly where we are <3

Jon was the first to wake the morning after the incident. Dany’s room had more windows, thus allowing the warmth of the morning sun to filter in earlier than it would in his. Dany’s back was turned toward him, curled with her knees nearly to her chin. While she slept, he replayed the previous day’s events in his head repeatedly. He had suspected something was awry between her and Viserys, but she never alluded to anything beyond simple sibling differences, and childhood strains after their mother died. The past year Jon had become so attuned to her mannerisms, yet never had he seen Viserys handle her the way he had yesterday.

It angered Jon; it set his blood afire, making him recall his own treatment at Winterfell. It was no longer a wonder as to why Dany would shrink in her brother’s presence, or acted freer in his absence. At the very least, he thought, if Dany remained with him, Viserys would have a much harder time reaching her. He would make it his duty to do so. 

When Dany began to stir, propping herself up on her elbow and allowing her eyes to focus, she turned halfway to see Jon lying beside her over her shoulder. He watched her silently, knowing what he wanted to say, but unsure of what her reaction would be. He had an idea, at least.

After a few moments, he sat himself up, his curly mane a disheveled mess around him. “You need to tell Illyrio. About Viserys.”

Immediately she shot him a wide-eyed look that was both fear and ridicule, shaking her head before averting her attention elsewhere. “No. It would only make matters worse.”

“Dany-”

“I said  _ no _ , Jon!” She shot back, whipping her head around to stare hard toward him.

For a long, uncomfortable while, neither of them spoke, until Jon mustered up the courage. “Then at the very least, don’t stray alone, or you’re vulnerable.”

Dany absently played with the fabric of the gown at her lap, pressing her lips together. It was a subtle gesture of defiance, he knew, so he rewound. “I know that you want to say ‘no’. You’re stubborn in that way. I know you are able to defend yourself when you need to. But I can protect you.”

There was a pause before she finally acknowledged him once more, but only as a brief glance from her peripheral. “Not always. Not forever.”

This caused him to knit his brow together. “What do you mean?”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly in thought of what she was going to say, and she turned to look at him, her voice low. “I overheard Illyrio speaking with Serra a long time ago...that after some time here, you’ll be sent away to the Night’s Watch. I don’t know when, but…”

Jon’s frown deepened and his eyes searched the bed for answers. Father had never spoken of such plans with him; he wondered if he still intended that to be his fate now that he had become so accustomed to Illyrio’s hospitality and protection. In a way he felt betrayed; surely if his father could reveal to him that he was living a false life as a bastard, he could grant him the vision of where his future might lead him.

“I’m sorry,” Dany insisted, almost reaching her hand out toward him. “I thought you might have known.”

“No,” he muttered, still troubled. He knew all of what the Night’s Watch entailed, and he had no motive to ever recite their vows. Given that King Robert was willing to put a knife into his, their, hearts himself if he could, being bound to an oath would only paint a target on himself. If he abandoned the Watch, it meant death. If he professed his life to the Watch, he would remain stationary in one location for the remainder of his life, and with Robert’s assassins already trailing after them...he may as well hand himself over to the man now.

“Jon,” Dany called, and he realized she had been trying to break him from his thoughts for a while. He brought his eyes up to hers. “I never thanked you for yesterday, so thank you. But we must never speak of it to anyone else, ever. Do you understand?”

To Jon’s ears, she sounded every bit a queen, if it wasn’t for the sweet lilt in her voice, or the child-like features of a girl of seven. He nodded in response, and they agreed to part ways so that they could prepare for the day.

Jon had another session planned with Lazaro that morning, and he dressed in his proper attire in his chambers. An idea had occurred to him on the small walk from Dany’s quarters to his own; given that he would not allow her out of his sight, he would bring her with him. She could see how adept he was with a blade, perhaps even learn a trick or two for her own benefit. Lazaro was a sellsword - coincidentally, his company’s name was Wolf Pack, and silently Jon wondered if that was part of the reason Illyrio had hired him - and he hoped it would ease her nerves.

It had been a few months since Lazaro had joined them; he lodged somewhere on the slight outskirts of Pentos, and not a word was spoken to him of any of their identities. Illyrio had simply told him that he cared for orphaned children. When Lazaro had questioned why Viserys took disinterest in his lessons, Illyrio had to explain, with some embarrassment, that Viserys felt it would be insulting to even insinuate he needed to sharpen his skills. Internally, it made Jon laugh. Viserys had a blade of his own at his hip most of the time, but not once had Jon seen him wield it, except to disarm himself for dinner. It had been on him yesterday when Jon pelted him, yet he made no move to grab it. That told Jon that it was merely a decorative feature, perhaps to make him appear more able and tenacious than he really was.

It was interesting to Jon how he had encountered children much like Viserys back at home, had dealt with them on his own, yet Viserys did not scare him. Not a hair raised in fright of the boy, even though he hated Jon the moment he stepped into Essos. Viserys often spat in Jon’s direction, or cast him repulsive looks, spewed abhorrent words at him only for him to hear. Jon did not know where his own courage came from, as he ran from it in Winterfell, but perhaps it was the ability to read Viserys as nothing more than a featherweight. He supposed it also could have been due to the knowledge that  _ he _ was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. He had no interest nor desire in pursuing kingship, but as he had told his father, it would be useful to banter Viserys with; just the idea that he was unseated the moment Jon knew who he truly was. Not once did Jon ever insinuate his intentions to become king, except for a hint of it the day prior; it had all derived from Viserys’s own paranoia, and Jon enjoyed stringing him along.

After they broke their fast, and sitting through an awkward silence between the lot of them, it was time for sparring lessons. It took some convincing to get Daenerys to come along; she had been insistent on helping Serra tend to the garden, but Jon convinced her that it would be beneficial, speaking out of earshot away from everyone else. Dany had gone to change into breeches, knowing that a summer dress would not work in her favor. When they arrived into a clearing among the trees, Lazaro was sharpening his blade, turning to smile at them warmly. He was of golden brown skin, lean yet muscled, tousled hair swept back to the base of his head, with a thick beard and mustache to match. Jon had become quite fond of the man, in part because he was one of the only people in his life whom he was anonymous to, where his identity did not overshadow him a couple hours every other day.

Lazaro threw his hands out enthusiastically, closing the space between them and taking Dany’s hand, bowing before her. He had not known of Dany’s actual status, but Jon had learned over time with him that he was particularly fond of, and respectful of, women. He had been raised as a child without a father, who had died in war, and was raised alongside his five siblings by the single hand of their mother. He regarded women as higher beings to be worshipped.

Dany flushed at the welcome, slightly widened eyes considering Jon at her side when Lazaro stepped back. “A pleasant surprise; will you be joining us today, my lady?”

Jon unsheathed his blade from the scabbard at his hip, eyebrows raised a little at Dany as the nervousness splayed across her face. “I’m willing to give it a go,” she said, her voice small.

“Excellent,” Lazaro chimed in his thick intonation of his accent, returning to the large, moss-covered stump of tree where his belongings rested, and pulled forth an extra sword. Jon could see already that it was light in weight, and he hoped Dany would not find offense in it. He watched as she began to fidget a little, shifting from foot to foot, hands kneading together. Her hair was braided away from her face, trailing down her back.

“Here you are.” Lazaro presented her with the sword, to which she smiled with relief when it didn’t anchor her to the ground with its weight. “Little Lord Snow, let us begin with your footwork and let…,” he gestured his chin upward toward Dany, and she named herself Eleanora, an alias to conceal her identity. 

"...Eleanora, observe you for a bit." Lazaro smiled warmly and he and Jon took to their posts, leaving several feet between them. Dany stood off to the side in the center, eyes fixed on Jon's feet. "We will start slow, so the silver lady can make notes…"

Nodding, Jon crouched slightly, arm at the ready. He followed Lazaro's tempo as they glided toward one another, feet moving swiftly and forward until they were nearer one another and planted their soles into the earth. Dany scrambled to remember each calculated maneuver, but found it overwhelming. Jon noticed, and suggested they begin at a closer range and add more distance each time until she found a pattern.

It was nearing half of the hour before she felt sure of herself enough to give it her best. She replaced Jon, and Lazaro talked her through every step, not yet clashing blades until he was certain she would not trip and hurt herself. They alternated between Dany participating and observing, with both Jon and Lazaro, until a thin sheen of sweat lined the crown of her hair.

When Dany had grown too fatigued, she sat on a tree stump while the boys resumed normal operation, and it was in that moment, seeing how Jon could wield a blade without fear, that she knew she would be safe with him.

* * *

Dany continued to join Jon with each practice session, save for when she was needed to practice her studies with Serra. No matter what it was she was doing, she made a point to avoid Viserys at all costs, though that soon became a non-issue: it had come to their attention, after a few days, that Viserys had slipped under their noses and would disappear for various lengths of time every so often. It threw Illyrio into a panic each time, fearing him to have been abducted or lost, but Viserys always claimed he had been wandering the perimeter of the trees that they were allowed to peruse, despite the guards being unable to find him.

Jon did not trust the boy for one second, and it caused him to tie Dany closer to him than usual. Viserys also had not interacted with Jon or Dany since the confrontation, and the abrupt cease in his behavior made them both suspicious. On one particular night, Jon could faintly hear the slight creaking of the hall floor. He grabbed his sword that was always upright beside his bed, straining his ears. He only heard it once more before it subsided, but distantly in the direction of his window there was rustling near the trees. His window had been propped open as it was far too warm to sleep otherwise, and the wind had been too light to make such a ruckus.

Hastily, Jon crept low and waited for the sound to distance itself from the manse before he straightened himself to peer through the pane. Even in moonlight, he could not mistake the illuminate silver hair, as well as Viserys's gate. There was no hesitation when Jon pushed open his window enough to fit himself through, sword in hand. He was sure to keep enough space between them so that he would not be heard, but where he could not lose sight of Viserys. Jon's eyes were wide, fear beginning to creep in the further away from the house he got. They were well beyond the limitations that Illyrio set for them, but Jon needed to know why Viserys was skulking about so late into the night, putting them all in harm's way if ever he were caught.

The trees felt endless once they swallowed the glow of the moon, and Jon began tripping over raised tree roots and stationery boulders in the black of night. At a certain point his mind kept screaming to just turn around, that maybe he misunderstood Viserys’s late-night encounters, but the logical side of him knew differently. The crunch of the earth below his feet was going to be what drew attention, if anything, so he had to force a large enough distance between himself and Viserys, though it made it far more difficult to keep up when he lost sight of his silver hair every so often.

Finally, after Jon was covered in a layer of sweat both from nerves and the stale, still summer heat, he crouched low behind a thick tree trunk. He could just see, there beyond the clearing, Viserys speaking with three figures that were too obscured that Jon couldn’t see any notable features on them. He was afraid that if he tried to get a closer look, it would be his luck to snap something below his weight and draw attention.

He allowed himself a few minutes, to hope that perhaps the direction of the breeze would change in his favor so that their voices would carry with it. But, no such luck, and the four of them moved further out until he was confident he wouldn't be heard, so he quickly returned home.

* * *

It wasn't until late afternoon the following day that Jon caught Dany without a large audience to eavesdrop on them. They found themselves in a small study nestled between the bedroom corridor where he just summarized the previous night's events.

Dany's head slowly turned, frowning in the direction of the floor. "I don't understand. What sort of business would he have with anybody besides the lot of us?"

"That's what I'm going to find out," Jon said quietly, earning s questionable look from Dany. "I'll go again next time he sneaks out."

"Jon, no," she said sternly, her brows set in a straight, firm line. "If we are found out, that would be the end of us."

"It's likely that that has already happened, Dany. It's as you said: who does he know outside of the manse? And what dealings does he have with them that he does so in private?"

"Don't get involved. If Viserys is conspiring something, let the blame fall on him, not you."

"You believe it too, thrn," Jon noted. She blinked. "That he scheming something."

Shrugging, he could tell she was growing impatient with his interest in the matter. "It doesn't matter. He has little influence, especially amongst strangers. When we were living on the streets, people laughed at him when he tried to make himself look bigger by threatening their lives if they didn't give us their food."

"But he has more resources now," Jon insisted. "He has some wealth, a title so long as I remain anonymous that he could use if he really wanted to."

"Please, Jon," Dany's shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes as she said it. "Don't do anything foolish. Viserys is not a threat to us."

"Not a threat? Dany, he  _ hurts _ you-"

"Which is precisely why I'm begging you not to follow him!" She hissed, nearly forgetting they were meant to stay quiet. Her brows were angled, her eyes glazed. "He can hurt you as well as he can me."

Jon considered her for a minute. "He can't hurt me. And I told you that I will never let him lay a finger on you again."

Dany started for the door, then looked over her shoulder at him. "And I told you that would never last. Don't follow him, Jon." With that, she left him to his thoughts, which were only swimming more violently. 

By the time night rolled around, Jon made it his mission to keep himself awake as long as necessary, practicing arm movements with his sword across the length of his chambers. The only source of light was the full, round moon spilling through the windows, providing just enough visibility that he wouldn't stumble, but making it appear he was asleep from the hall outside.

It was still a moderate amount of time before the familiar noises erupted outside once more. At one point, Jon wondered if there would not be any activity, but alas, the head of silver hair disappeared into the thicket of trees. Earlier in the day, Jon had created an inconspicuous trail of stepping stones to buffer the noisy leaves and branches, shielding them with soft leaves to conceal them. He reached out his window and laid his sword against the outer wall before feeding himself through, then sheathed the blade at his hip before he followed the trail of stones.

While they were helpful, he only placed them so far, and he was back to the treacherous ground. Even so, he was much closer, and when he shielded himself against the wide girth of a tree trunk, he could hear their voices, but still nothing specific. They spoke low, as if they feared being caught. Just as last time, he heard them moving out, and once their voices faded, Jon found his way into the clearing they had just been gathering in. It was soft grass, and gave him the ability to move more freely. There was a wall of tall grass that they walked through that reached far above Jon's head; it was evident that this route was frequented given that there was an unnatural parting, and now Jon wondered how long these secret meetings were going on for.

He followed the rustled somewhere ahead of him, stopping when it sounded as though they had, and picked up again. The further they got, the louder they became. They were speaking more freely; Jon caught words such as 'stag', ' coin', 'summer'...nothing that particularly jumped out at Jon; a sliver of him wondered if perhaps Viserys was only meddling in some type of black market scheme for money. It didn't quite make sense, given they were well cared for and gold dragons were not hard to come by where Illyrio was concerned.

Sighing inwardly, Jon allowed himself to fall back a little bit, though continued to remain within earshot of the traveling voices ahead. His palm quieted the slight rap that his blade made at his hip. More than anything he wanted to catch Viserys out, and the stubborn side of him wanted to prove to Dany that he was right, but doubt began to settle enough that he wondered if it was worth the trouble. Yet, his feet continued to draw him forward, the pitch black of night settling deeper the more he walked. Before he could think on it further, something snapped below his feet, causing him to slam his eyes shut and halt in his place, easing said foot off of the ground.

Only faintly could he hear hisses from them ahead, a sure sign that they heard him, and the sound of hasty footsteps only became increasingly louder. With his hand on his pommel, Jon tried his best to fall back towards the manse while blending the sounds of his footsteps with those behind him. They were hot on his trail, so he darted off to his left, hoping the tall grass would settle before they could notice the stalks had become disturbed. He ran with purpose, worrying less about the obvious cracks and rustles he stirred, and then when he cut left once more to throw them off, an excruciating pain blinded his eyes until he felt hard onto his knee. The pain seared from the enclosure at his ankle and soared up his leg, and he bit hard on his tongue, doing everything in his little power not to wail. Rather, he limped back onto his feet, putting most of the weight on his good right one, and hobbled with determination. The anguish that he felt made him break out into a feverish sweat, blood pulsing so loud in his ears he could no longer determine if he was still being chased.

There was no time to stop and see, however, and in no time he darted back right, and hastily unfastened his sword belt, hurling with abandon through his window, and then he followed with the same amount of care. He writhed on the warm floor, his heart palpating violently in his throat as blood, undoubtedly, was rushing to the wound. When he found the energy to sit up, he first made do to close his window and draw the shade over it before he dared to look down at his ankle. His entire, small body was nearly convulsing; a basilisk trap, round and ridged with large metal teeth. Illyrio had set them long ago when basilisk sightings had grown in number in recent years, and Jon managed to snarl himself in one.

He was certain his ankle was broken - how his bones would even have upheld within his muscle would be beyond him. Looking around his room frantically, a whimper escaped him when he went to his chest and sifted through his belongings, retracting the only object that appeared formidable enough to possibly pry the jaws open. He sat himself on the floor, dagger in hand, and studied the best way he could even get his other hand to pry it open without marring his flesh in the process. He angled himself this way and that, and finally wedged the hilt of the dagger in between two of the metal teeth, then fit a couple of fingers in a similar fashion on the other end, and pushed with what little strength was remaining.

He grunted long, urging every muscle into it, but it only moved a fraction, and when he rested, the trap seemed to only push further into his already mangled skin. His breaths were becoming more shallow and his head fuzzy, his black trousers already darkened with red. On his next attempt, he found he had less vigor than the first time. Gasping, there was only one other option he could think of, knowing if he didn’t seek help, this could very well be his final night alive.

Painstakingly, he found his way out of his room and down the hall seeking Dany’s door, wary of any other activity that might be looming about. He let himself in without knocking, limping his way over to Dany’s bed as he gently shook her at her shoulder. She startled awake, large lilac eyes boring into his charcoal ones, strewn with desperation. “Jon?” She asked groggily, immediately sitting up, her eyes trailing from the sheen of sweat on his face, to his unusual posture, then gasping with horror at his foot.

“I need your help - I can explain later,” he gasped, throwing himself onto her floor. First thing, Dany barred her door, then scanned her room. She tucked her hands under his armpits and pulled him across the floor until he sat before her blazing hearth for proper lighting.

“You don’t need to explain; I know exactly what you were doing,” she responded sternly. “What do you need me to do?”

She seemed determined to help, but Jon didn’t miss the quiver in her voice. She wasn’t used to seeing this sort of thing, and it would look far worse once his trousers weren’t covering the wound, but she at least understood that it needed to be removed promptly, else they would both have a lot of explaining to do if he didn’t show up to break his fast come morning.

“Do you have some sort of cloth?” He breathed with a squeak, gnashing his teeth together as the pain radiated incessantly up his leg.

Dany moved in a flash, removing a thick towel from the iron tub in his room. “Just tell me what to do, Jon - you’re losing color!”

“Wrap it around the blade, so you don’t cut your hand. Now, I need you to use all of your strength, Dany - pull the hilt and the blade with equal pressure, and I’ll get the other end. Panic set in Dany’s face now, like an open book.

“Wait!” She cried, quietly as she could, and retrieved another towel, shoving it in his hands. He nodded, and together on the count of three, they pulled until they were red, and he could feel the relief ease off of him, but his boot made it impossible to pull through.

“Ah!” He wailed, bringing his arm up to sink his teeth into the sleeve there as the metal jaws resumed their former position.

“Sorry!” Dany called, her hands already at work at removing his boot. Thankfully, it hadn’t gotten snagged by the trap’s fangs, and it took little effort to slip off.

“One more time...should do,” he panted, and they assumed their positions, and worked together until, finally, he was free, but Dany screeched into the room. As the relief filled him and anguished him all at once, he turned his head to see that the blade had torn through the cloth and now Dany’s palm had a neat laceration straight across it. Her bewildered eyes could only gawk at it, horror-struck. Jon crawled over to her and sopped up the blood with the halved towel, pressing it firmly as she winced by the rough contact.

“Don’t worry about me,” she assured, nodding at his own injury.

“I have a hundred excuses I could use to explain me; you, on the other hand…,” he trailed off, and Dany lifted an eyebrow at him.

“It was from sparring,” a timid smile stretched her lips, and he reflected it.

“Good thinking,” he said, the pain surging through all of him now that there was no longer a makeshift tourniquet at the wound.

“I have some herbs and bandages that I think might do to trick...if not, you’ll have Illyrio to answer to,” she noted, getting to her feet and shuffling through a cabinet near the tub. When she returned, she sprawled out a variety of tools and an expanse of plant-like oddities.

Frowning a little, Jon looked up at her then. “Why do you have these in here?”

“You know as well as I how much I love the garden. I found these in Serra’s, and thought it would be smart to have them nearby,” she explained, moving over a small stone mortar and pestle, threw in a few exotic leaves, and began to crush and mix them determinedly.

Jon grimaced, his vision blurring.

“Almost done, don’t go anywhere,” she said in jest, though he assumed she saw him waver where he sat. Once it was ground into a fine paste from the plant’s juices, she crawled on her knees to his ankle and let the towel fall from her hand. 

"Dany," he reached his hand out, nowhere near her, to give her pause. "Your hand. Take care of that first,' he assured. Headstrong as she was, she gave him a look and made for his ankle. He pulled it away. "Your hand first. Bring it here."

Sighing with petulance, she crawled to him, and he slathered the mush across the length of her split skin. It was so deep that the blood only coated the paste, and it hardly looked as though the healing property had been smeared at all. A few times she subconsciously pulled her hand back with a whimper, and he muttered apologies under his breath, before he managed to wrap a bandage around it.

Thanking him tenderly, she moved to his ankle once more. Expelling a huff of air, she slowly, gingerly, rolled up the hem of the pants, bringing the back of her palm up to her mouth and closing her eyes a moment to gather herself when it was revealed to her.

“This is going to need more than herbs, I’m afraid...oh, Gods…,” she quieted herself, rolled her shoulders back, then leaned down and smoothed the paste over the gnarled flesh as best she could, holding her breath when she was required to guide her finger into the deformed tissue.

Jon’s head thudded against the floor, using the thick leather of his little bicep to bite into to stifle a scream. Dany had turned at the sound, thinking perhaps he had fainted, then tried to make quicker work of it. It had felt like moons, centuries, before she spoke again, telling him she was done.

“Jon…,” she said, worry lingering in her tone. He could only look at her from where he lay. “I need to sew it up. Unless you would rather explain yourself to Illyrio and Serra of your misadventure,” she added testily when he opened his mouth to protest.

Everything in him wished to argue, but she was right: the only way to get by relatively unnoticed tomorrow would be to take the risk of Dany's less than skillful hands, though if there was any comfort in it, she did have some craft in sewing garments. He nodded his consent and waited as she rummaged amongst among her belongings once more, and, coincidentally, returned with sewing thread and a thin, moderately sized needle.

"I'm going to apologize now, because I may vomit on you," she said through a strained voice.

"You're not keeping me calm, Dany," he whined, suddenly unable to hold still.

"I brought you this. For your mouth," she handed him a clean cloth, his despair increasing with each passing second that she didn't just do it already.

"How well do you handle a needle?" He asked, his voice small.

"I have a very steady hand, if that's what you're asking, but it's not everyday I'm putting someone's leg back together."

Jon swallowed hard and twisted the cloth into a thick rope, stuffing it between his teeth. His eyes remained trained on the rounded ceiling, trying to distract himself with the shapes the shadows cast by the trees in the cutout window danced. Then, without warning, a blistering suffering erupted where she had no doubt sunk the needle in, and his howls were absorbed by the cloth in his mouth. It took all of his willpower, what remained of it, to not snatch his leg back or to move much at all with the sharp tool weaving him back together.

Dany was silent, no doubt unfathomable focused and ill in equal measure. The rest of him squirmed and jolted as his skin tightened, and he could feel himself slipping away. It felt like relief as he faded in and out of consciousness, the pain numbing until he felt nothing at all.

* * *

When next Jon opened his eyes, it was still dark in Dany's room, and he was still lying on the floor. Though this time, a pillow had been tucked beneath his head, a light Knott 3 blanket strewn over his waist, and his other boot removed. When he rolled onto his back, he observed Dany sleeping beside him, a makeshift bed made of layers of blankets beneath her. She was in a deep sleep, judging by the state of her steady, deep breathing, and her set jaw. Somehow, the pain had lessened to only a nagging thing, and he wondered what else Dany had done to provide such relief.

Sitting up, he saw how thin Dany's temporary bedding was, and how she was slightly contorted to adjust to the blunt stone against her bones. With much effort, he bore all of his weight on his intact foot and crouched down, grunting while he swept her up and placed her as gracefully as he could onto her bed. By some miracle, she didn't wake, and he crawled in beside her, content that his ankle was well wrapped so he wouldn't get blood on the silk sheets. It was mere minutes before sleep swallowed him up.

The second time he opened his eyes, he saw Dany perched on a chaise near the window, a thick book in her lap. It took her a while to notice he was moving, and when she did, she practically threw the thing to the floor and rushed to him. “Seven hells! I never thought you would wake!”

Eyes squinting against the bright orange glow of the room he sat up, and his brain now acknowledged the hot pain encircling his lower leg. Dany brought over a pair of breeches and a tunic and draped them over the bed. When he eyed her quizzically, she explained that he had slept through breakfast, and she had stopped in his room to get him fresh clothes.

When he slid down to his feet, even the gentle tug of his muscles stretching sent a shooting pain coursing up through his spine. "Did anybody say anything rustin regarding my absence?"

"Of course they did," she chirped, catching his horror ridden face. "Don't  _ worry.  _ I just told them you weren't feeling well and you twisted your ankle whilst sparring, just as I indulged a little too much with a blade."

A small smile pulled at Jon’s lips, as it did hers in response.

“Well, was it worth it?” She then inquired, nodding to the wrapped ankle.

Sighing, Jon shrugged. “What could ‘stag’, ‘coin’ and ‘summer’ have to do with anything?” Even when he said it aloud, it sounded ridiculous, but something still nagged at him about Viserys’s nightly escapades. It wasn’t right, it certainly wasn’t normal; he could easily inform Illyrio of them, but then he would risk not being able to get to the conclusion of what was unfurling.

Dany raised her eyebrows gently and shook her head slowly. “Silver stag? Coin is obviously money, I think...Summer is self-explanatory, unless that’s someone’s name.”

Jon grabbed his clean breeches and tossed a look over to Dany, who rolled her eyes in turn, and rotated so that her back was to him. She nibbled at her lip slightly, eyes searching the floor. “Are you going again?”

Jon hobbled as he tried to balance himself whilst trying to figure out how to remove his pants without aggravating the wound. Briefly, he shot a glance at the back of her head, eyes narrowing. “Why?” Her voice was far less capricious than last time she knew of his plan, and he didn’t like it.

“I thought I might join you, if you do,” she went to turn her head over her shoulder, remembering that he needed privacy, but the groans and apparent struggle behind her was distracting. “Let me help you - I promise I won’t look.”

Jon reddened, but knew there was no way he was going to be successful. “We have to cut the hem open if I’m to get these off…,” he mumbled. Dany moved to near the hearth where the aftermath of last night’s affair took place, then shielded her eyes with her hand except for her destination at the floor. Dropping to her knees, she began to hack away at the fabric, causing Jon’s eyes to widen.

“Seven hells, Dany! You’re going to take my other leg completely off if you don’t slow down!”

She hushed him, and within seconds the material was nothing more than shreds and torn pieces. “Here, use my shoulders to keep yourself steady,” she offered, turning her back to her once more, on her knees so that his hands could reach.

He did as bid, and was able to pull himself out of his tattered clothing, grateful that she chose one with a wider leg. Once he was all decent again, she began to clean up the mess in the room, removing all evidence. She chucked the basilisk trap as far out her window as she could muster.

“You can’t come with me, Dany. It’ll only increase our odds of being found out,” he told her, practicing his gait around her room, and finding it extraordinarily difficult. At the very least, he needed to be able to get around without anyone shooting side glances at him.

“I know Viserys a little better than you; I might be able to get a lot more out of it than…’stag, ‘coin’, and ‘summer’...,” she teased, earning her a scowl from him across the room.

He knew he would have to concede; they both were strong-willed, and even if he gave her a hearty discussion about why she wasn’t allowed to put herself in danger, she would likely find a way to do it herself anyway. At the very least, he could find a way to keep her occupied while making her feel that she was a participant, without throwing her straight into the fire itself. It was still his duty to protect her - his own, self-conception of a promise. “Fine, but we need to come up with a plan. We can’t be reckless.”

She smiled contentedly, and they went off to begin the rest of their day.


	4. Into the Woods

Jon and Dany were convened in his room, late into the night, preparing for their eventual spy venture. Suddenly it felt almost more like a game, but with far worse consequences if they were caught. Dany had pinned her hair up to avoid it snagging on anything, and had dressed in riding breeches that she rarely wore, so that her dress would not become an obstacle. With a piece of parchment, Jon sketched out the approximate coordinates of where Viserys and his mysterious vagabonds met up, and where about Jon had fallen into the basilisk trap. He was more nervous about those than Viserys finding them out. Viserys had already grown suspicious of Jon’s lopsided gait, though he only glowered, and said nothing of it, and that only convinced Jon further that he was plotting.

Otherwise, Illyrio and Serra accepted Dany’s tale of their injuries, though Jon had somehow weaseled his way out of letting them tend to his wound. If they had seen that Dany sewed him up with hobbying thread, they would be demanding answers until they spilled the truth. Jon gave Dany his dagger, the one that had opened her hand, though he was able to locate its scabbard in his room later on. She wasn’t entirely adept with a blade, but she knew how to swing it and strike things without it falling from her hands, at least.

After their sparring lessons with Lazaro earlier that afternoon, they took advantage of the absence of everyone else, and the daylight, and scouted out the area in which Viserys had been convening. Jon was diligent in removing all of the traps and snares in the immediate area that he could find, while Daenerys did most of the walking.

“There’s another way that leads to that clearing - you’ll take that one, and I’ll take the other,” he noted quietly, pinning his sword belt to his waist. “If you hear anything that isn’t me, just run, Dany.”

Dany nodded, visibly nervous with her shoulders hunched and eyes large as orbs.

“There’s two snares right under the black-blue tree; do you remember when I showed you?"

She nodded once more.

"It's only a safeguard, in case they see us, or try to hurt us," he scribbled two little circles and a line into the tree sketch on the parchment. When he was done, he slid the paper over to Dany so that she could study the little map he had created.

"You should let me go ahead; your wound isn't healed enough to be jaunting around," she insisted.

He shook his head. "No. You know Viserys's mind better, but I can use a sword better. If he or his friends got a hold on you…," he shook his head once more.

Her eyes softened a little bit, and there was certainly a mix of worry in there as well. 

"Don't forget - whoever gets in first lights the hearth, so we know if the other person made it inside or not. If one of us gets left behind, or if one of us is in trouble, run toward the front gate. The Unsullied will take care of them, but that's only for an emergency," Jon persisted on, Dany nodding her understanding.

They sat for a while in silence, in the shadows of her room, until the rustle outside signaled their move.

Sighing, he raised his eyebrows. "Ready?"

"Ready," she said firmly.

Though he was older than Dany, he had more height on him, and so he knit his hands together in a crouching position to give her a boost. Once she was safely out the window, he followed behind. With a silent gesture, he pointed to where her path began, and watched until she got there safely. Suddenly doubt crept in and whirled his stomach about; this was a terrible idea to have let her get involved. Maybe he should have let her do it on her own will instead of having her tag along, but then again, at least he would  _ know _ where she was now.

Jon took to the path and kept his head ducked down, through the narrow gap of the overgrown foliage. The same voices were up ahead, and he could hear Viserys clearer now than the last two nights. He was discussing something relating to the day's events, the other men chuckling in response. Jon wondered who ever found Viserys humorous at all; he was as funny as a wooden plank.

Then he heard his name, and cursed the wind for stirring the grass beside him and drowning out whatever superseded it. They landed in the clearing, or so Jon had thought. When he peered around, it was empty, but the voices had gone with it. Heart in his throat, he moved his hand to his pommel, eyes dilating and wide as he spun carefully on his heel. Nothing. He suspended his breath, afraid that he may hear something in Dany's direction, but then a shuffle behind him made him back up toward the trees.

He slowly withdrew his blade, and adopted his defense stance. His feet drew him backwards, always aware of his back, until it came into contact with a tree. In one motion he rounded until he was hidden, straining his ears as the sound of hesitant footsteps drew nearer. His eyes quickly assessed his environment and his options: he could either face this intruder head on, or sprint through the trees with the very likely chance his shadowed figure would be seen, and just hope he was fast enough that they wouldn't notice who he was or where he was going.

The footsteps in question now halted to a stop only feet behind him. Jon gripped the hilt ever tighter, not even daring to breathe in their proximity. As he mentally prepared to fight, his nerves laden with adrenaline, the sound quickened into the other direction. A slow breath released through his lips. When he garnered himself safe, he poked his head around the tree, and threw it back when a blade struck the tree a mere hair from his eyes.

He stumbled backward, bewildered, and instinctively thrust his sword into the direction of the silhouette of the man. Somehow, he parried as he ripped his sword free of the wood, and when Jon caught a quick view of his face in the fractured moonlight above, he thought he saw some trepidation. Jon assumed said man didn't anticipate a young boy to be his challenger, and Jon wasn't going to allow him the time to ponder his uncertainty.

Jon lunged again, meeting his blade; he was a heavyset man, but deceivingly light on his feet. As Jon was being forced back, in the direction of the clearing, his mauled ankle struck a jutting root from the ground, grunting as the pain made his eyes flash white. When he refocused, he tossed himself down and rolled as metal rang against the air and struck the earth beside him. Jon observed the stranger's folly as he struggled to retrieve the steel from the puncture of the ground, and whipped the flat of his blade against the rear of the man's thighs. He hollered a deafening growl into the void, one that was sure to resonate through sleeping ears.

Jon picked himself up, but escape was nigh as a second person approached with no apprehension, hacking away violently at Jon's face and neck and wherever their arms could reach. The silver hair couldn't go unnoticed even in the black hole of night, but Viserys made two mistakes: wielding a short range dagger, and assuming, still, that he could outwit Jon.

They were brought to the clearing, where moonlight flooded the circle, and it was evident that Viserys had known his target exactly as his face contorted into one of utter hate and repugnance. The whole path to the opening was only one of Jon dodging Viserys's various attempts at disarming or dismembering him, until Jon raised his weapon and swung the dagger straight out of his grip. Before Jon could even deviate an escape plan, Viserys pummeled his body against him, crashing into the grassy field below.

"Where did you get this? Mm?" Viserys seethed in a blinding rage, wringing his hands around Jon's ankle.

Jon convulsed in his grip, his breath drawn from him as tears pricked his eyes.

"Nobody wants a _cripple-" _another squeeze, and now Jon was yelling against his will, "-for a king!" Viserys clawed behind him for his dagger, but it was beyond his grasp, and Jon shoved the point of his pommel square into his jaw and got to his feet as Viserys howled.

" _ He's mine _ !" Viserys screamed hysterically. Jon hadn't noticed he was surrounded by the other three men, weapons at the ready. Viserys charged Jon once he ripped a sword from the hands of another.

Jon blocked with less ease than he was comfortable with as his wound pulsed violently. He was sweating profusely, but managed to keep up with Viserys's blows, which were equally as heinous as they were unsteady. Every second he wore himself out with hot anger, his assaults grew messier and messier.

A distant clatter well behind Viserys's entourage drew them away, leaving Jon with him alone. His heart stammered, thinking of Dany and how she probably was trying to pull some heroic move and save him.

“You think yourself so highly above me,” Viserys slashed, Jon met his blade. “That you will take what has always been rightfully  _ mine _ -” another swing, heavier with each attempt. “My crown, my sister-” he struck wildly, missing Jon by at least a foot. “The only two things my mother left me as she died on her birthing bed,  _ shitting _ out that loathsome little bitch-” He was beyond erratic now, his pale skin now a flaming red. Jon was readying to open his mouth to perhaps bring him down a level, until Viserys began abusing Dany’s name. “She will wed  _ me _ -” a strike, “She will give me an army like the world has never seen before, no matter the cost-” he pushed Jon further and further backwards. "She will give me an  _ heir-,"  _ he began to exhaust himself now, and Jon was convinced he meant to kill him. “And  _ we _ will take the seven kingdoms, and  _ I _ will see that that Baratheon pig's head is carved from his neck,  _ and I will feast on his flesh _ !"

As Viserys forced Jon back, nearer a black-blue tree, Jon eyed the ground each split second he could afford, and found the partly concealed snare. He sidestepped around it and continued to parry Viserys, watching him steadily, until he had him right where he wanted him. Just as Viserys's foot made contact with the trap, he was suspended upside down by his ankle, hollering as his frantic, white eyes spun wildly to absorb what was happening.

Jon tried to catch up with his breath as his ankle pulsed insistently. A slight glimmer on the ground told him that Viserys had lost his blade, assuring Jon that he wouldn't be escaping on his own accord. Viserys began screaming expletives until his throat burned raw as Jon retreated into the tall grass without looking back.

His path was clear of anymore obstacles, and his chest loosened with relief when he saw the orange glow of Dany's hearth burning within her quarters. In his sprint he thought of the three men he laid his eyes on - the plump one he had fought, the other two of average stature, all with facial hair and long, stringy hair. None of their clothing, nor armor, were marked by any particular sigil or symbol or recognizable coloring, rendering his observations as useful as before they took on this task. His mind numbed from the pain as he limped his way to the window, and Dany stood just below, reaching her arms out in an attempt to catch him but they both fell helplessly to the floor.

"Close the window!" Jon cried hoarsely.

"Get  _ off _ of me and I might be able to!" Dany grunted in return, and he muttered an apology before he closed it himself.

"Well?" She pressed, her eyes lined with tears, and so large he thought her eyeballs may well burst from her skull.

Jon was hunched over, his throat hot from running so fervently. "I...my ankle…"

She narrowed her eyes at him until she understood. "Not again...go by the fire."

Jon did as instructed, and luckily this time his breeches hadn't been cinched at the ankle, so rolling them up was no difficult task. 

"Oh...Gods. Did Viserys do this to you? I can't even see the thread anymore!"

Jon almost felt he could cry, but he refrained. This time, he sat up and set his eyes on the monstrosity that was his own flesh, or whatever it was he was truly looking at.

"Jon, I'm sorry, but I can't do this one. It's going to get infected and I can't-"

"I know," he said exhaustively. She trailed off and now her tears were spilling over, hands covering her face. He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Why are you crying?"

She sniffed, her shoulders quivering. "Because now they will have to know. There's no way around it."

Jon softened, reeling in the idea of teasing her, and scooted his way to her and pulled her into a lopsided hug. Her little fingers clung to the backs of his arms, and she allowed a couple sobs to be drowned out into his cotton shirt. His eyes focused on the entrancing flames spitting upward, his brow set and eyes hard. "I'm going to keep you safe. I promise. I'm going to keep you safe so long as I live."

Dany's little spasms ceased, and she pulled away to study his charcoal eyes until the door burst open and startled them apart.

"Come with me.  _ Now. _ " Illyrio seethed through his teeth, still fresh in his oversized sleep gown.

Jon and Dany shared a vexed glimpse so one another before they followed Illyrio's footsteps.

* * *

They were brought to the octagonal room; the one where all of the halls met. Jon, Dany and Viserys were standing in a line, Illyrio pacing with his hands set behind his back. Serra, arms crossed over her chest, boasted a worried expression.

Every few seconds Viserys would throw a glare in Jon's direction, and an even more heinous one to his little sister. Viserys’s hair was a nest of tangles and grass. Jon was sure to stand between them, though it was getting near impossible to be on his feet at all.

"Who wishes to speak first? Hm?" Illyrio stopped in front of them, dragging his eyes over every guilt-ridden face.

But Jon knew that Viserys wouldn't dare thrust anyone else forward, as he was the one who was found shouting helplessly until Illyrio heard the rambunctious calls through his open window. Jon and Dany were only collateral damage, as Illyrio wouldn't have assumed the trap to be laid by anyone else, because they did not know anyone else...to his perspective. One could not rat out the other without being entirely truthful.

"We thought it would be funny to see a dragon fly again," Dany whispered cheekily, and Jon's eyes widened, but he couldn't look at her out of fear he would burst into uncontrollable laughter. Instead, the resistance to do so was clearly displayed on his face. Viserys lifted his head as if to stretch his neck, a vein protruding at the side.

"You think this a funny matter, Jon? Dany? All of you - each one of you - very well could have put us  _ all _ in danger. We still may be! And for a little joke?" With every passing word his voice rose in volume, echoing and returning as it bounded off the acoustic walls. All three of the children hung their heads, rid of any sign of humor now.

"Did you know that Robert had spies planted here no more than a week ago? They've gone now, but they were closer than they've ever been. I've purchased more Unsullied to post around the entire perimeter," he growled. "I suppose I will be required to have one stand watch at each of your bed chamber doors. You two," Illyrio addressed Jon and Dany until they looked at him. "No more sharing your sleeping quarters."

"But-" Dany sputtered, and Illyrio silenced her by thrusting his hand in the air. When she flinched and ducked behind Jon's arm, he frowned a deep crease at his brow and slowly lowered his arm.

"I'm not going to strike you, dear. Do you truly believe I would do such a thing?" There was evident pain in his voice.

When Dany moved to look at Illyrio, ashamed, she could only shake her head. For a few more seconds Illyrio studied her as if trying to find the purpose for her reaction, and straightened himself when he found none.

"All of you to bed. Now. Except Jon." Jon went cold, until Illyrio gestured for Serra. "She will see that that is taken care of," he nodded at his ankle which, in this light, was very much seeping blood through the fabric. Dany and Viserys both sulked off to their respective rooms, though Dany stalled to let Viserys get a few paces ahead of her. When she looked over her shoulder, she found Jon to be watching her until she disappeared from view.

* * *

As much as Jon wished none of this had come to anyone's attention, the overwhelming relief when Serra numbed the pain was almost worth it. He lied on Dany's behalf, claiming it was he that attempted to suture himself up so that he wouldn't have to explain how it happened.

Sighing, Jon watched with morbid curiosity as she cleansed the mangled leg and removed the string diligently. "You're still just children; you'll find yourselves in more trouble than not. It doesn’t always excuse certain things, but..."

Her voice was gentle, much to Illyrio's displeasure as he sat beside his wife at the long table.

"Trouble is the nicer way to put it. You cannot sweeten the sour, Serra," he grumbled, pinching the corners of his eyes. A sudden guilt washed over Jon; here was this man who put his life at risk to protect their lives of three children who were not even his, and this was the sort of distress they repaid him with.

"Illyrio was more trouble than he was worth when we met," she continued as if her husband wasn't just next to her. He groaned.

Jon smirked slightly, moving his eyes from the sandy haired woman to Illyrio's disgruntled, downturned mouth. "What did he do?" Jon inquired, just as Serra laid him on his back along the table.

"Well," she drawled, a permanently fixed, sly smile on her lips. "My father adhered to very strict rules when it came to men. He never wanted me wasting my time on the ones who, as he put it, were not worthy of marriage based upon how they presented themselves."

Abruptly, Jon cried out, his voice returning to him in the echo. Whatever numbing concoction she had spread over his skin was no longer. He went to sit up, but Serra gently pushed him back down. "Stay calm; you have a fractured bone that you've exacerbated by running. Focus on my words, Jon, and less on the pain."

Whimpering, he nodded as she continued on, his skin dewy and a cold sweat seeping through his underclothes. "But what my father did not know was that I already had my suitor in mind - well, I called it suitor, but I was never of any highborn nobility, but I did love to pretend. And having all of those young men coming to my father's doorstep, because he would not allow me to venture off with them without knowing them...it made me feel every bit a princess."

There was a pinch and a pull, and pain coursed through him up through his body, but he strained his ears to will the sensations away. 

"You see, I used to work in a pleasure house-"

"Serra," Illyrio warned, all traces of humor abandoned. She kept her eyes fixed on Jon's leg, but raised her eyebrows to acknowledge her husband. "Not an appropriate story for a child to hear."

"I'm certain Jon knows what a pleasure house is-"

Illyrio loudly cleared his throat.

"It's where men go to feel good...at least that's what the guards used to say in Winterfell," Jon muttered, shifting irritably now that he was thinking about the pain again.

There was a prolonged silence.

"Yes. Anyhow, we met there," Serra continued. Jon had little notion of what a pleasure house truly was, though it sounded as though it was to seek women's comfort through hugging and a strange manner of speaking, or...growling. He and Robb used to make a game out of eavesdropping on visiting lords, after Robb had finished his requirements to welcome them with the Stark family. Once, guests from the Reach had been passing through the courtyard, and Jon was tucked away in a chicken coup, and three raucous men were exclaiming how they had stopped in one of these aforementioned establishments. One of the heavier set lords was imitating his experience, with animalistic sounds and wildly bucking his hips into the air, sending the other two hollering. The man continued to drabble on how good this woman made him feel, and his eyes even seemed to sparkle when he spoke of it. His friends clamored in excitement at his side, clapping him on the back until Jon could no longer hear them.

"We continued to meet in secret, and I kept my father satisfied by continuing to meet with these admirers that I knew he was conspiring with to win me over," Serra said, though now Jon was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate as she bound his bone together. His leg was quivering so erratically, Illyrio stepped in to keep it still. "Then, Illyrio and I made a plan to run away together, but not after he would meet my father and say all the right things my father sought in a capable man. The thing is, while Illyrio was very persuasive, my father hated the idea of me being with a man that wasn't  _ his _ choice. He despised how handsome Illyrio was, telling me that any man who could devote that much attention to himself was too vain, and would leave his wife hollow of the same treatment, as it would be spent all on himself.”

Tears were threatening to spill from Jon's eyes now, as Serra poured a warm wash over the wound and it seared him. Illyrio applied more pressure to flatten him, and Serra said something about sewing him up proper. Her story regarding their meeting was not doing much in the way of distraction.

"So, in the end, my father rejected Illyrio's advances, and he created measures to ensure we would never see each other again. But I escaped one night, through a trap door even my father knew nothing of, and we ran away to the Free Cities," she explained, her voice coming clearer now, and the pain began to subside and numb. "I sent a letter to him, my father, so he would not worry about me. That I was in safe hands, and by that time Illyrio had enough wealth that we would love comfortably. But, he severed any money I might have received, and he told me that while communication by raven was well enough, he would rather not see me ever again. Alright. All done,” she said, gently patting his other leg.

When he sat up, she steadied him as blood rushed to his head. “How come I can’t feel it any longer?”

“I put a stronger numbing ointment on it. We’ll have to keep doing so until it heals enough, and no more antics like tonight, else you will lose your foot entirely,” she said kindly, but firmly.

It occurred to Jon then…

“And what about my lessons? With Lazaro?” His eyes widened slightly, and Serra glanced at Illyrio.

“Unless you are capable of sparring on one foot, I will have him dismissed until you are better,” Illyrio said, helping Jon off the table.

“What am supposed to do, then? Lay in bed all day? How long until I’m better?” He could feel a slight anger bubbling, though he knew this was entirely his doing.

“It will need to stay elevated as much as possible; I will have something curated for you so that you can at least get around the manse without exhausting yourself,” Serra noted.

Jon threw his head back, frustrated and defeated. Illyrio came to his side and walked him to his bed chambers, where there was already an Unsullied guard stationed - just as it was with Dany’s door, and Viserys’s further down.

“Sleep well,” Illyrio said as he turned to retreat to his room.

* * *

Jon woke after having slept through the night without interruption, but his pain had made a return. His stomach bellowed lightly, anxious for food, as he sat up and blinked the grogginess away. 

He carefully slid off the bed, keeping his right foot elevated at all costs, and hobbled his way to the door. When he pulled it open, the posted Unsullied was no longer there. In the dining hall, he was met with the four sets of eyes as breakfast was just being distributed. He scowled in Viserys's direction, who slowly trailed his eyes purposefully to Jon's hindrance, then gave him a corrupt smile.

He found a seat across from Dany, who was beside her brother. Not once had she made eye contact with Jon since his arrival, staring loyally only at her plate below her as she ate. 

"I'll fetch the numbing potion," Serra broke the silence quietly. "Did you sleep well?"

Jon nodded as he chomped through a slice of crispy bacon. She left the table to fetch her supplies, and Illyrio cleared his throat. "You children need to find a way to mend whatever this is," he gestured with his fork, to the obvious strain tensing between the three of them. Illyrio looked at each of them, but nobody spoke.

"You're the last of the Targaryen blood. You will need each other someday. Perhaps someday soon. You're only giving King Robert leverage if you are constantly at each other's throats; especially you two," he waved his fork between Jon and Viserys. Still, they all pretended to be otherwise preoccupied with their food.

Serra returned and propped Jon's foot onto her leg as she sat, gentle hands rolling up the hem of his breeches. "It's swollen, but that's to be expected. Your body is doing as it should." She collected a dollop of the paste and gingerly applied it over the redenned skin. "I'm having a merchant put together a walking stick for you to bear your weight on. It should be ready by midday."

Once the table was cleared away, Viserys was first to leave after Illyrio and Serra, leaving Dany and Jon alone. He looked over his shoulder to ensure that was the case, then leaned in and looked at Dany. "Are you alright?"

Finally, she met his eyes. She was unreadable. "I'm fine."

Eyes narrowing, he sighed. "Don't lie to me, Dany."

Her eyes bugged slightly, eyebrow only just twitching. Jon rotated his head just enough to where he could see a figure dart out of his peripheral. Gritting his teeth, he left his chair and took Dany's hand, leading her to his chambers. 

"Did something happen since last I saw you?" He questioned the moment they were in the safety of his room.

When Dany avoided looking at him, just as she had done all morning, he knew he had his answer. Right now, she found interest in the floor, perched at the edge of his bed. He joined her, wishing that he didn't have the nuisance of a lame leg. When he sat, her shoulders dropped, easing from their suspension.

"As we were walking to our chambers last night…,” she drew her eyes upward, “he told me that if I make the mistake of meddling in his private affairs again, I will ‘wake the dragon’, and that he let me off easy this time.”

Already Jon was searching what skin was exposed in her pewter blue silk dress, but he found nothing on her arms, the little bit of her shoulder he could see, and Viserys certainly wouldn’t dare strike her face. “Where did he hurt you? Show me.”

She hesitated, seeming to consider refusing, then pulled down the collar of her gown until it crept to the middle of her breast. He turned to look away, but she whispered that it was alright, and first he sought her eyes which were lined with tears and her mouth downturned. Finally, he looked down to see a thin, wine-red fissure along the flat of her breast bone. His knuckles whitened as his fingers dug into the thickness of the bed below, his chest heaving by the sight of it. His heart pumped blood so hard that it deafened him. How had he not known? Did she not cry out in pain? He knew she was strong, but…   
  
From where he sat, he could see the dark maroon groove carved into the flesh. She repositioned her dress, the wound now out of sight, as she let her tears spill over without even a whimper. Jon leapt onto his feet - uncaring of the discomfort - and grabbed his blade beside his bed.

“Jon! What are you doing?!” She cried, chasing behind him and grabbing his arm until he was tugged backward to face her. His eyes dampened.

“I want him dead. I want him gone, forever,” he croaked hoarsely, and then her slim arms were thrown around his shoulder, sobbing freely into his shoulder.

“You c-can’t,” she grieved pleadingly, keeping her voice low, but punctured by small sobs. “H-he said that...h-he said that if I continue to spend any more of my time with y-you, he’d kill you.”

That didn’t make Jon feel any better about the situation - in fact, he would have kicked down his door just then if he could’ve, and searched all of Essos for Viserys’s silver head and his smug crack of a smile if it came to it. Instead, he closed his eyes to recollect himself, to bring himself back down to sensibility, and laid his sword against the wall to put his arms around her upper back. With his eyes searching the room, he was at a loss; in his condition, and with guards posted at their doors each night, it left Dany vulnerable. Viserys already proved that even a few minutes of her unprotected would bring her harm.

“Do you trust me, Dany?” He whispered, his chin on her head.

She pulled away so that she could see him, the whites of her eyes replaced by a pink hue, and a small crease in the space between her brows. “Of course I do.”

“When I said I would protect you, I meant it. I failed in that last night, but I won’t again. Ever.” He looked down at her, and she closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against his, conceding with a small nod.

After a moment, he took a half step back. “We’ll figure it out together.”


	5. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany have a bit of fun, and surprises are abroad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BACK.  
I never would have expected to take months to update again, but it's an understatement to say that my personal life has gotten absolutely insane and stressful. I also was struck with a bit of writer's block, because I ended up adding more early chapters than originally intended, but we're back on track. I also have several AU's I've been working on, though I'm unsure how many I'll end up publishing, but they helped me cope with the craziness I'm dealing with. 
> 
> Hopefully it won't be another 4 months (yikes!) between updates, pending how things go. Cause ya know, life, am I right?
> 
> Anyway, hope you all enjoy this piece - I have some future chapters written, but need some additional ones in-between until we reach that point :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, and continues to read/kudos/bookmark/comment; I *truly* appreciate you!

It was a complete fortnight that Jon was lame.

Sleep had been lacklustre; even with guards posted at their doors, he couldn’t help but fear the retaliation of those men in the woods. Had he not been so encumbered by this dreadful lack of a leg, he would be able to get at least some semblance of shuteye without fearing his window being broken into. Sometimes, their faces crept into his dreams, which also startled him awake. Other times, those faces transitioned into Viserys, and when it did, his hands were firmly gripped around Jon’s throat, and his lungs burned as his breathing seized.

There had been no obvious signs of Viserys sneaking off anymore, but Jon was wary of him finding new mechanisms. Having his chamber door protected also meant he couldn’t meander off around the manse at night, either. Jon wasn’t normally too fearful, but somehow now he felt their little bubble of safety had been diminished. He had considered, many times, pulling Illyrio aside to speak to him about it, but he feared Viserys's recompense on Dany wouldn't be worth it. While Jon intended to keep his promise of keeping her out of harm, there were bound to be times where he was unable to be present.

By the end of the first week, Serra had removed the stitching from his wound, and by the third week, he was able to walk on it as usual, aside from an occasional pinch. The only thing that kept him level-headed was that he kept himself busy being in Dany’s presence most of the time. While not always able to be in the same room as her, given that she had certain duties that warranted only Serra's presence, he would then keep a close eye on Viserys’s whereabouts. Nobody questioned it, since his leg was out of commission and there had not been much else in the way of spending his time. Sometimes, he would indulge in a book or two, and Serra would encourage him to do so more often so as to keep his mind nimble. 

There also had been a message delivered to him from Winterfell, the first after several months of drought. Father always wrote vaguely, so as to not risk an interception. It was usually no more than him wishing Jon well, reassuring him that he was not forgotten, but there were never intricate details. Nothing regarding politics or visitors. That was saved for visits in person.

Ned also never ceased to designate himself as his father, which warmed Jon to his soul.

_ Dearest boy, _

_ My apologies for the delay. I will explain when next I see you, which I pray comes soon. Your brother wishes very much to join me. He says he could beat you in a sword fight, though I am not so sure. He grows more adept every day. Your little sister is growing fast - she looks every bit her father, just as you do your mother. I hope that you are being treated well. I miss finding you in the woods, or watching you play with your brother from the study. I hope you are not giving your gracious hosts too hard of a time. My beloved boy, I hope to reach you very soon. _

_ With love, _

_ Father _

Jon read it three times, tracing his thumb over the parchment where he could just make out the shallow grooves of his father's pen where it pressed into the paper. The thought of him and Robb and maybe even Arya being here in the near future made him giddy with anticipation; he longed for a piece of home, as they were his home. He even looked forward to hearing of the more mundane matters that kept his father locked away in his study for hours at a time, if only to get a visual idea of his father's day-to-day. Matters that Jon used to be impatient to end so that he may spar or hunt with him.

Before he could revel in it too long, the quick patter of feet behind him made him roll up the parchment and turn around. 

Dany was bright eyed and out of breath, a smudge of dirt on her dress from when she had been extracting vegetables from the garden with Serra. "Lazaro is back!"

"What?" Jon breathed, already jumping out of his chair.

"Wait! I need to change my clothes," Dany exclaimed, running with a purpose to her chambers. Jon went to his own, carefully tucking the scroll beneath his pillow. His heart thudded with excitement and impatience as he strapped his sword belt to his waist, and by the time he emerged from his room, Dany was already grabbing hold of his hand to make for the trees where they would always meet.

"Ah! My little lord, and princess…," Lazaro, still feet away, bowed before them. Though he did know of their proper formalities, he still chose to refer to them as noble children. It felt as if they were commoners playing with wooden swords and tree branch crowns, though that was the exact impression they were required to exude.

Lazaro held Jon out by his shoulders, inspecting him thoroughly. "Everything looks in order. All you need is this," Lazaro pushed a finger to his temple, "and this," he lowered the flat of his hand to the center of his chest. 

Jon smiled, and Lazaro moved to take Dany's hand, pressing the lightest kiss to her knuckles as he always did. 

"Jon," he began, retrieving his sword. "We will begin with you today. I want you to act as though that foot of yours was chopped off."

Jon looked at him, exasperated. “What? That’s impossible!”

“Lazaro of Lys does not lie to the little lord. I already know your skill with a blade; let me prepare you for hypothetical circumstances. You may need it some day,” Lazaro assured, nodding his confirmation.

Dany sat on the large tree stump, and Jon took his place. It was several rounds before Jon could even approach Lazaro without tripping up or losing his balance entirely. Once he had reached an acceptable balance, he was able to disarm Lazaro after a few attempts.

"Ah! You see, you are capable so long as you think not of the thing itself," Lazaro encouraged with a poke at Jon's suspended foot, "but with your heart and mind. As agile as a blade fresh from its whetstone. Let's go again; this time, Lazaro will not be so kind."

Jon reset into position, never setting his foot down, then hobbled toward Lazaro, swinging horizontally only to be caught swiftly by Lazaro's blade in one smooth parry. The impact was so sudden, it nearly drove Jon toward the ground. Quickly, he rounded their metal and made to strike inward toward Lazaro's legs, but he dodged sideways and gently struck the flat of his sword against the rear of Jon's calf.

"You are too focused on what's in front of you to worry about what's behind!" He lectured just as Jon swiveled, just catching his balance against a slick part of the ground. He heard Dany gasp until he recovered and rebounded Lazaro, making three sharp motions forward, sidestepping another attack from behind, and rested the edge of his blade against the back of Lazaro's neck.

" _ Much _ better! Now, you take a rest, and let Lazaro see what the princess remembers." Lazaro brought the point of his index to his temple.

Jon traded spots with Dany, his heart thumping rapidly against the confines of his chest. Dany rose as if this came naturally to her, and Lazaro placed a blunt practice sword into her hand. She adopted her stance, once heel planted firmly in front of the other in a half sideways position, her left arm lingering slightly outward and her right gripping the sword readily. There was a certain confidence in her eyes and posture that Jon didn't remember seeing last time. Usually Lazaro had to make adjustments to her sword hand or her legs, but today he only nodded his approval.

And her balance and technique...had she been practicing in her room, unbeknownst to him? There were still some stumbles and vulnerability, but nowhere near what it had been. In fact, she was better on her two feet than he was on one, which was remarkably improved. She tired after a long string of work, her cheeks flushed and her mouth open to collect heapfuls of air. 

Jon watched as Lazaro gave her an encouraging nod, and Dany turned her bright eyes onto Jon. “Come on," she urged, drawing a slight frown from him.

"You and me?" He asked, his voice an octave higher in his bewilderment.

"That's right," she responded encouragingly. Jon set his eyes on Lazaro. While she was much better, he would still tower over her in sparring, and he feared he'd accidentally hurt her. "Or are you afraid?" She pressed, looking down at him with confident eyes.

That threw him out of his doubts; he decided he'd go easy on her, maybe even let her beat him a couple of times to raise her confidence. But then, that would create false courage, and false sense of security. He rose, and just when he was preparing to trade his steel for wood, Dany retrieved a dagger from her hip. His dagger; the one they had used the night they chased Viserys through the trees. He'd forgotten he left it in her room. Jon faltered in his step, considering her. "What are you doing?"

Dany stepped into position. Lazaro looked pleased, the both of them leaving Jon to solve this puzzle on his own, it seemed. “Practicing, of course.”

Narrowing his eyes at her, he hesitantly stood opposite her. When he got into position, she made the first advance, and he was unprepared for the dagger to actually meet his blade. “You’re fighting short-hand; you’re at too much of a disadvantage,” he warned gently, despite her accuracy. If his blade caught her fingers…

But she ignored his caution and went at him again, and he blocked, then made a half-hearted swing that she tucked her midriff inward and twisted her wrist to parry. He pushed harder against her, and she brought her arm around and backed up a few feet. Jon lunged and gingerly swiveled his sword above his head, bringing it down at a mild pace to where it would have made contact with her neck, but she craned her head and brought the dagger beside and up before her shoulder, stopping him. When she looked for his reaction, and when Lazaro began to hoot with laughter behind him, he slouched his shoulders. “You two have been practicing without me!” He accused playfully; he wasn’t envious as he thought he might be, but more impressed that not only had she adopted the interest on her own, but that she kept it hidden from him.

Dany nodded enthusiastically, and Jon tossed his head back as he was slow to realize. 

“The princess has worked every muscle for two hours every day since your injury, little lord,” Lazaro called from where he sat amongst the leafy ground. “I fear you have much work to do if you hope to continue to best her!”

“Ha!” Jon scoffed, raking his hand through his hair to keep it from falling in his eyes, then swiveled to see Dany once more. She looked timidly proud. “Faster this time,” he challenged, and so they did. Even at a moderate speed, she could hold her own. She mostly lacked in being able to counter when he disarmed her, and she wasn’t yet ready for full strength or speed, but she was certainly adept enough to make him work now.

It was mid-day by now, and sweltering hot. After a few more rounds, and when their clothes were sticking to their skin, Illyrio appeared from the thick of the trees with an amused smile on his pink face. Lazaro had begun to pack up his things whilst Jon and Dany laid listlessly on the cooler ground, catching their breath.

“My, my. It looks as though a particular girl and boy might be too exhausted to go for a swim,” Illyrio said, tossing a small pouch of coin over into Lazaro’s hands for his service. Lazaro bowed his head in thanks. Jon and Dany sprung to their feet faster than Illyrio had likely ever seen. He belly-laughed. They had been moaning for months that the manse was becoming quite mundane, and they had such limited quarters that they could explore. The base of the rocky hill that the manse sat on was encompassed by the open sea - a perfect cerulean blue that lapped at the crag. It felt such a waste to have it at their doorstep, yet they could never take advantage it. They only recently learned, by snooping in on a conversation between Illyrio and Serra, that they had hired laborers to create a stone stair path down along the bluff to a landing that would ease into the sandy shore.

Jon and Dany made their quick goodbyes to Lazaro, collected their weapons, and darted off, with Illyrio calling after them to slow down carrying such dangerous objects else they should spear themselves. They hardly listened, sprinting into the manse and to their respective chambers. Serra dashed out of their way, then followed them, instructing them to only bother with whatever underlayers they wished to wear while she gathered large wraps of cloth for them to dry in. When they gathered again, Viserys had joined them, looking reluctant as ever. It mattered not to Jon and Dany; they were blinded by the very fact that they were stepping beyond their confines. Illyrio walked them out to the rear patio and gestured with his hand the stairwell that had been paved for them, once again shouting for them to go slow, so they didn’t split their heads open along the way.

“Beat you to it!” Dany exclaimed as she and Jon hopped alongside one another, the path wide enough for the both of them, while the others trailed behind. Faintly, Illyrio and Serra could be heard chuckling at their jubilance.

“I’m faster!” Jon returned, winded. But rather than race each other to the water at all, they both halted the moment their feet buried into the white sand. Both of their mouths fell open and they exchanged an exasperated look, bending down to collect the grainy substance into their palms and watching as it slipped through their fingertips.

“It feels like silk, like my dresses,” Dany noted, digging her hand far into the ground until half of her arm was buried. About ten yards off was the sea ebbing gently at the shore. Much further out, the blue-green color descended into the dark depths of the deepest parts.

“Come on,” Jon said, standing to his feet whilst tossing off his thin tunic, waiting until Dany was down to her underclothes. Illyrio, Serra and Viserys filed behind them, laying down linens to sit in the shade. Jon extended his hand and Dany took hold of it as she pressed her teeth together in a wide grin, eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline. “One...two...three!”

In unison, they sprinted for the water, giggling uncontrollably until the water quickly climbed up their legs and they waded up to their chests, gasping at its cooler temperature. They stayed close enough to the shore so that their toes could easily reach the sea floor. Jon then gathered some air before plunging below the water, pushing himself toward the sand. He opened his eyes, wishing it was a little less murky, and watched as little fish swam a few feet ahead, wary of his movements. He blew a mouthful of bubbles toward them, watching as they scattered frantically, then pushed himself above water once more and wiped his hair and water from his face.

Over on the shore, Viserys sat just before the water, sinking his feet into the darker bit where the water lapped over them. Jon and Dany looked toward one another silently, as if sharing a mutual thought. Then Dany gave a small nod, and Jon turned his head to consider Viserys once more.

"Viserys," he called, unsure of what sort of response he might receive. The boy only looked up from under his brow. "Come swim with us."

Viserys studied the both of them for a long moment. Truthfully, Jon wondered if he might be considering a way in which he could drown him...if they didn't have the company that they did, at least.

"Go on," Serra encouraged. "You don't get this opportunity often."

"I don't like the water," he muttered solemnly. If Jon didn't pity him, he might have laughed. Someone who wanted to put a sword to Jon's neck, afraid of water.

Illyrio grumbled and leaned in to make a comment to his wife as she began to rummage through a woven basket she brought. "Come over here and eat, then," she said.

Dany and Jon made their way over and the three of them perched on the linen Serra displayed for them. Then, she splayed parts of roasted duck and glazed Myrish oranges onto small wooden palettes, passing them around. Jon and Dany ate in record time, both from burning so much energy with Lazaro, and in anticipation of returning to the water. When they finished, they dashed off, and Dany grabbed two handfuls of wet sand and piled it on top of Jon's head. Then she escaped into the water as he chased her, diving in head and hands first as he caught up to her and pulled her legs beneath the surface to submerge her. A plume of bubbles escaped her mouth where she had laughed under water, using her feet to gently kick Jon away as she resurfaced again. Jon came up after her, splashing weakly at her face, and she plodded through the water until she was behind him and circled her arms around his shoulders. His feet found purchase in the grainy floor below, linking his arms at the crook behind her knees and began to spin her as fast as he could. Illyrio was belly laughing over on shore as Dany clung tightly around him, slamming her eyelids closed and shrieking the more relentless he spun. Eventually, his balance was lost, as was all of Dany's strength, and they fell backward back into the sea. If it weren't for the density of the water to still her, Dany would have fallen five times over.

They played like this for what felt like hours. It was at least until the sun was approaching the last quarter of the sky, and they were well and truly water-logged. When they came ashore to take a rest, wrapped in towels, they had both fallen asleep in their state of exhaustion. 

Illyrio was already on his feet and half dragging them toward the bluff when a vessel came into view, Jon stumbling as he blinked his eyes toward the ship. “Is that a Stark ship?” His lips tentatively formed a partial smile. There was no doubt; he could recognize Ironwood from miles away, a native wood of the north.

“We need to get back inside. Your father never sent notice of any arrival and we cannot risk you being seen if it is not,” he said, forming the three children into a single line so that his own back blocked them. Silver hair only meant one breed of family, and Jon being seen with them would raise many, many flags if it was an assassin. Jon knew that it wasn't, but he would never resist against Illyrio's protection. Serra followed lastly, glancing every so often over her shoulder. There was no banner to be seen from here, and though they were far off the coast, it wasn’t often that ship traffic traveled this close.

When they reached the rear entrance of the manse, Illyrio swiftly closed the door behind them and kept watch while the children scuttled off with Serra to dry and clothe themselves. 

"That's a northern ship, I know it is," Jon said, slightly breathless from the haste of getting into shelter and carrying that vigor all the way to his chambers.

"We mustn't be careless; even if it were, we don't know who boards it, if it had been commandeered," Serra followed behind him, and stood idly in the hall as the three of them split off into their respective rooms.

Jon had never disrobed so fast in all his life, peeling the damp clothing from his skin and quickly wiping down residual wetness with the bath wrap. He threw on a tunic and breeches and was back beside Serra before Dany or Viserys had yet to appear. "Nobody could steal a ship from my father. He isn't so feeble as that."

"Oh?" Serra challenged lightly, and suddenly Jon felt his tangled hair being pulled back, hissing; she had withdrawn a brush from her pocket and began to disentangle his sea battered curls. Her other hand gripped the locks to prevent the pain from reaching his scalp. "Every lord has a weakness; great house or not."

"Not my father," Jon returned stubbornly. "He's the best swordsman I've ever known, and everyone respects him."

"He  _ does _ have at least one weakness. Would you like to know what it is?" She said softly, working her way down his thick mane. 

A small crease formed between his brows, turning his head just slightly. "What is it?"

Serra shifted her hands to rest on his small shoulders, bending her head down to acknowledge his side profile. " _ You, _ " she said simply. He looked at her then. "There is nothing he wouldn't do for you, or any of his children. One day you will understand, when you've had some years on you, and you are able to appreciate it with wiser eyes. He loves you to the very depths of his soul. And he would risk everything to keep you safe...and happy."

That made Jon smile, and even some warmth crept up his neck. She returned to tame his hair and Dany found her way back into the hall, her hair already flowing in soft, brushed waves. Viserys came next, but left them to seek Illyrio and whatever was approaching. 

"That would be much less painful if you would run a brush through it once in a while," Dany said matter-of-factly, even crossing her arms as Jon winced each time a lock of hair was pulled against his scalp.

“I don’t need to have pretty hair like girls do,” he returned, pressing his eyes together.

“You already have pretty hair,” Serra contended, finishing the last thick strand before pulling out a tiny glass vial containing a flower oil extract, warming it in her hands and combing it through his hair. “There. Now, you kids stay here, and I’m going to see what all the fuss is about out front.”

Dany busied herself with her hair over her shoulder, picking out miniscule grains of sand embedded in the strands. They waited impatiently for what felt like ages, until Serra returned to them. Jon couldn’t decide how to read her expression, but she lost some color in her face. Dread set into his stomach, suddenly wishing that this was all just a dream he would wake from soon.

“Come, children,” she said with a wave of her hand. Mouth downturned, Dany caught a glance at Jon as they followed behind Serra, his legs working on their own.

As they entered the main hall where guests were greeted, his spirits were lifted to infinite and overwhelming heights as his eyes swept over the scene: not only was father well and unharmed, but to his left was Robb, and in his right arm was little Arya. Jon had caught Robb as he was pacing eagerly, and when their eyes met, both of their faces lit the room as they sprinted down the hall and clamored in a firm embrace. After a moment, Jon parted and wrapped his arms around Ned’s hips, who mussed his hair and pressed his cheek to his side.

“You’ve grown a foot since last I was here,” Ned chimed, setting a squabbling Arya down onto her feet. “She’s just learning to walk now. If I hold her longer than five minutes, she’s quick to throw a temper.”

Jon smiled down at the dark wild-haired girl; hair as thick as his. It had been fused into a braid that was quickly becoming undone by her own will, little fingers idly plucking at the strands. When her brown eyes found Jon, she released a shrill squeal, a dribble of drool sliding down her chin as she took some wobbly steps toward him. Jon crouched and held his arms out until she rested her tiny, chubby fists on his knees, curious eyes gazing at all the unfamiliar faces on her.

Ned went around to make his greetings to Viserys and Dany. “I’ve brought you all gifts,” Ned announced, gesturing over to two large crates near the entrance. Jon hadn’t heard it before, but one of them  _ moved _ on its own accord, and there was a faint yelp.

“Best give you yours now, Jon,” he said, stepping over to where a thin sheet had been placed over the one that had shifted.

Apprehensively Jon stood to his feet and Jon collected Arya in his arm again. Robb was restless beside him, and Serra moved to stand behind Illyrio. Dany moved forward to take jon’s other side, all of them anxious. When Ned lifted the latch, a red-eyed, snow-white-haired dog - no,  _ direwolf _ \- bounded in Jon’s direction, taking no mercy on him as he leapt his great paws up onto his chest. Jon’s mouth fell open with a breathless gasp as the pup lapped at his skin still salty from the bay.

“Seven hells, Ned, where did you find such a beast?” Illyrio asked a few paces away. Serra paled further, and now Jon realized why she had blanched a short time ago.

Robb spoke up first. “We went on a hunt and found them abandoned. A whole litter of them! One for each of us.”

On all four paws, the pup’s head reached Jon’s waist. Ned was beaming despite the hesitation of the hosts. Dany slowly dropped herself to her knees, waving off Serra when she went to pull her away. The pup was quick to offend her just as he had Jon, his wet nose nuzzling her hair as she giggled away. When he bounded off of her, his piercing blood eyes sought Viserys, and his hackles raised with a growl that would someday be fearsome.

“Come,” Ned said sternly, his voice echoing down the hall. Viserys scowled down at the little beast as it turned away back to Ned’s voice. “He still needs a name.”

“A  _ name _ ?” Viserys spat, making those unfamiliar with his outbursts flinch. “It should be beheaded and returned to Winterfell where it belongs!”

“Viserys!” Illyrio scolded, stomping one foot forward.

“Perhaps it is  _ you _ that should be beheaded and sent to Winterfell!” Robb contended, sending the hall into a suspended silence of shock. “The direwolf is the sigil of house Stark. To defile it is to defile the family.”

The deafening silence was only pierced by Viserys’s small pants of air, an inability to retaliate. Everyone was still, Robb looking between each face in the room with an authority that made him look every bit a young prince. Jon was busy trying to get his wolf to calm down, his large paws constantly climbing up onto his shoulders.

“Robb, that is enough. That is no way to speak to those who are housing us so generously,” Ned stated firmly, then turned his attention back to the others. Robb scowled, but did as he was told. “Now, for the princess…,” he reached into a satchel that had been resting beside the crate and withdrew a grey bundle of fabric, gently placing it into her arms as she eyed it curiously. She unraveled a greyish blue, roughspun cloak, adorned with a hood. “You may be wondering why a cloak, what with the climate of Essos. But it is one meant for tempering one’s body temperature - to keep cool in the heat, and warm should you ever cross the Narrow Sea and travel north.”

Dany flashed a brilliant grin and spun it around her small shoulders, then ran to Ned. “I love it. Thank you!’ She reached up on her toes, and he crouched slightly as she pecked a small kiss on his cheek. Jon thought his father had gone a little pink in the face then.

“And for you, Viserys,” Ned continued, revealing a finely crafted sword belt, thick of leather and embellished with rubies. Jon would have laughed had it been proper; Viserys treated a blade more akin to a blunted letter opener, with no sense of competency, skill, or appreciation for the craft. "It was known that your brother, Rhaegar, was very fond of the gem."

"Yes, I know the tale," Viserys returned through gritted teeth. Jon wished to set Ghost on him just then, as the pup settled into his lap. Viserys held the belt in both hands, seemingly pleased with it by the slight upward tick of one corner of his lips.

“I ought to knock some sense into you, boy, if it weren’t for our guests,” Illyrio growled impatiently, with Viserys shooting the man a sidelong glower. "Now, off with you children; Lord Stark and myself have much to speak on."

* * *

While the children kept busy with Ghost, Illyrio and Serra gathered with Ned in the gardens over some ale.

"And you believe King Robert is biding his time?" Illyrio inquired midway through the conversation.

Ned tilted his head to one side for a moment. "He is hungry for their blood to be spilled, of that there is no doubt. However, I have reason to believe he is playing smart. Rather than ambush the country, I've received word that Robert has been circulating Westeros. To afford the highest bidder to bring any of them, alive, to him."

"And what does the King offer in return?" Illyrio inquired, stomach churning at the images plaguing his mind of what the children would ensure should they ever be brought to the King. Would he torture them, draw out their pain for every waking moment Robert spent mourning his lost love, Lyanna? Or might it be a quick, painless death? Either way, the ale suddenly list its splendor. To his left, Serra appeared to sense his thoughts - or perhaps his tone of voice had given him away - and she pressed a gentle palm against his back.

"Anything from gold dragons, to knighthood, to legitimacy. It would depend on the subject, I suppose," Ned returned softly. Though Lord Stark carried himself with much stoicism, Illyrio knew the man well enough. He was just as ill over it all, especially with the weight of the world on his shoulders when it came to Jon.

A crease folded between Illyrio's thick brow. "Why does he not simply send Jaime Lannister to do his bidding? He was all too keen on treason against King Aerys himself, and surely would be all too eager to provide Robert the favor of eliminating any chance of a Targaryen following in his shadow."

"That's the thing," Ned continued. His own drink was going warm. "To send familiar faces to Essos, or erect a garrison, would alert too many. The Lannisters are proud, and would never march into any territory without making it known. Robert promises wealth and opportunity to those whose livelihoods depend on it, and who are skilled enough.”

Illyrio glanced over at Serra, who sat quietly beside him, then returned his eyes back onto Ned, and lowered his voice. “My Unsullied tell me that scouts have been identified not far from here, Ned.”

“Are you certain?” Ned asked, more as a strained breath.

With a single nod, Illyrio sipped his balmy drink. “Those who are unfamiliar with the Free Cities do not know the culture. The etiquette, the courtesies; they are quite different from that of Westeros. They slink about without purpose, and sometimes ask one too many questions, and then word spreads. Whether they were sent by the usurper himself, or otherwise, remains to be found.”

Finally, Ned dipped his chin, trapped in anguish at this confession, no doubt.

“You know that I would risk my life to keep the children well and safe,” Illyrio stated, quieter yet, leaning forward just slightly.

Ned’s eyes lifted with a certain nod, a small shake of his head. “Of course. I only worry now that perhaps it is not only Robert who wishes to have their way with them.”

A torturous shiver crept down Illyrio’s spine. It was not the first time he shared a similar wonder, though never dared to voice it. “We live in a cruel world, Ned. There are not many who can be trusted. Rhaegar nearly shattered the kingdom with his choice, and we are left to squander to make peace with all of it. I am sure that plenty of Northern loyalists would not be bereft to see the end of the Targaryen house, children or no.”

Slamming his eyes closed, Ned pressed his lips together in a thin line and inhaled deeply. “I’d like to believe that they would find it within themselves to not punish children for the crimes of their relatives.”

“While it is honorable of you to feel that way, and that I’d like to believe that we lived in such a world without malice, that is not our world, Ned,” Illyrio said languidly. “It is best to always remain at least two steps ahead of the nemesis, even if said nemesis is not entirely suspect.”

“Were there descriptions of these spies?” Ned moved on, eyes glued to Illyrio now. Illyrio knew the difficulty of the subject matter that surrounded Rhaegar and Lyanna. As she was highly revered in the north, and a fierce and passionate woman-warrior, those who were surrounded by her grace could not speak of the tragedy without wanting to wretch.

“No. By the time the news reached our ears, it had traveled all too far by word of mouth, so reports became misconstrued,” Illyrio explained. Off in the near distance, the children could be heard giggling and squabbling amongst themselves. “I expect some of that was intentional, whether to mislead them away from the proximities of their homes, or to simply throw oil to flame.”

Ned sighed, fingers pinching the corners of his weary eyes. “I see less of Robert these days. Perhaps it would be wise to change that.”

With a vehement shake of his head, Illyrio placed a firm palm against the table before them. “No, Ned. It will only draw attention to the matter, should you begin to pry. Making your presence known so abruptly will only make him suspicious, I would fear.”

“With respect, you do not know Robert as I do,” Ned replied. “While he has never lost his appetite to avenge my dear sister’s death, his mind is not as nimble as it once was. We are dear friends, despite what he does not know, and I am sure he would welcome more of my company. Additionally, I am past due to pay a visit to Lord Arryn.”

Illyrio stole a silent glance to his wife beside him, and she only offered a timid smile. Serra did not often project her thoughts on these particular matters unless she was only in the presence of himself, but knew that she was listening with full intent of giving him an earful later in their chambers. She took to the children as if they were her own, and if there was even a hair of a chance they may ever be discovered, it would eat at her. “I only ask that if you choose to meddle, my lord, to please...do so wisely. Should attention be drawn to us, here, Serra and I would do anything in our power to protect them. But without us, I do not know where they might find safety. They are only familiar with the immediate vicinity; Jon moreso.”

“Of course,” Ned returned, his voice softer now, a hint of a smile ticking one side of his mouth. “And whatever I may discover will promptly be delivered to you as soon as I can make voyage.”

* * *

After romping outdoors with Ghost, Robb, Arya, and Dany for countless hours - whilst Viserys sat forlornly off to the side - Jon was ushered back inside by Illyrio and Serra to clean himself up for bed. To his delight, he had found a makeshift bed crafted of sewn, old pillow and silks lay beside his bed for Ghost. Immediately, the pup flung his way forward, sliding across the warm, stone floor as his oversized paws caught the fabric. Jon barked a laugh, and still could not get over just how large Ghost was. He swore that the beast had grown just since he had met him.

As he pulled on his night clothes, there was a soft rap at his door, and after removing Ghost’s needle-sharp teeth from the wooden edges of his bed frame, he beckoned for his guest to enter over his shoulder. He was not surprised to find his father there, but now that he took him in properly, he came to notice how weathered and aged his face appeared since last he saw him.

Ned's mouth widened to a smile, nodding his head down toward the zipping white ball of fur attacking his ankles. "Are you sure you'll be able to handle him? He's rather feral."

Jon was already assisting in a gentle, firm scolding as he stilled the pup and spoke plainly to him, urging him not to bite. Unless told to, which drew a chuckle from Ned. "See?" Jon said proudly. "He's already listening to me."

"Is he now?" Ned returned playfully as Ghost pulled and tore at the hem on Jon's tunic. Grumbling, Jon repeated his previous discipline, to which Ghost's shining red eyes only searched him with gleeful anticipation. "A little firmer, Jon," Ned suggested. "He needs to know that you mean it."

Before Jon could do so, Robb helped himself into his chambers next, his damp curly hair drying against his forehead. Once the door closed behind him, he hissed, "how can you  _ live _ with such a foul creature?!"

Jon didn't need clarification. He knew exactly who he spoke of. Ned immediately corrected his lack of manners, but it was largely ignored. "I'm not afraid of him," Jon returned simply, his thoughts roaming to the men in the forest and causing him to quiver.  _ Those _ men he was terrified of, no matter how much Dany praised his bravery, he kept thinking that one night they would find the manse and break through his window to kill him.

"You both would do well to get along," Ned said. "You will need one another someday. The three of you."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me, but father, if you truly knew Viserys, you would understand that he is as kindhearted as those prickly flower bushes Old Nan used to plant," Jon argued through a low mutter.

Robb giggled wildly at that, and Jon watched as Ned did his best not to encourage such talk.

"How long will you stay?" Jon asked, his voice turning up with excitement.

Ned paused, then took up a spot at the edge of Jon's bed. By now, it was growing dark outside. "Not too long, I'm afraid. I expect one more full day, tomorrow, and then we must be off. I have several important matters to see to."

Groaning, Jon rolled his head back. In his distraction, Ghost had curled up in Jon's lap on the floor, contentedly sleeping. "I don't want to be a man if that is what I have to look forward to."

Chuckling, Ned reached down and mussed Jon's wild curls. "Such is our world, my dear boy. It is not all terrible. Some of it is rather dull, others difficult, but so long as you have people loyal and loving to you, it makes it all worthwhile."

A low hacking sound erupted from Robb, causing Ghost's resting form the flinch in response. "You are not a romantic, nor a poet, father," he scowled.

"I must beg your pardon, my little lord," Ned said through an amused grin, "but I can be both, when I wish. As can you boys. You can not get by in this world by flattery alone. You must have empathy, an open mind, and a sword at your hip."

Jon blinked, idly coursing his fingers through the pup's fur. "What is empathy?"

"It's when you are compassionate - understanding - of one's circumstances, especially when they are different from yours," Ned explained.

Without pause, Jon's mind drifted to Dany. He held great empathy and warmth for her. He cared for her well-being - more than his own - and he thought that maybe she felt the same for him. Her gentle heart accepted him into her world, this place so strange and unfamiliar to him, with so much trust and fondness. It was easy to latch onto, because even as young as he was, he knew that he would be hard pressed to be so lucky in the future.

As a supposed bastard, there would be little love for him anywhere.

Nodding in response, Ned rose to his feet. "We should all get some rest, and I need to be sure Arya is behaving for our hosts. We shall speak more tomorrow. I'll be posted just two rooms down, should you need me. Don't stay up too late." With a gentle smile, they each hugged him goodnight as he slipped through the door.

For the next hour or so, after Jon carefully moved Ghost to his bed, he and Robb did nothing but catch the other up on all they had gotten up to. For Robb, it was being divvied up to, someday, become a great lord, between hours of studies and history lessons and sparring. Though Jon would not receive such attentions, he knew that boys their age began said preparations from a very young age, so that the world was less of a shock as they grew into it. Who knew the things they would see in unexpected circumstances. He told Jon how Arya was already too keen on rolling around in the mud, playing with the boys, much to Cat’s chagrin. Privately, Jon praised her for said efforts. Robb’s lady mother would not earn much sympathy from Jon, and to have a daughter who may, someday, resist tradition, felt like a sort of retribution.

“Father is terribly busy, always. I know that he always was,’ Robb continued, “but sometimes I only see him when he comes to my chambers, late into the night, to bid me good rest, even after I’ve been asleep for hours.”

“Well, he  _ does  _ have more children to look after, and…,” Jon paused, glimpsing at Robb, who told him to go on. “Only, I don’t expect Lady Catelyn would care to let him do things the way he might like.”

Robb frowned, but not angrily. He was well aware of her disdain for Jon, but he did try to be fair about it, for all of their sakes. Of course, he loved his mother, but he loved Jon just as much, and prefered to avoid any false perception that he took sides. “I suppose so,” Robb conceded, sighing. “Ever since you left, that’s when I noticed his absences. We barely practice swords anymore, and even when I grow bored of my studies and memorizing etiquettes, he is either locked away in his study or not there at all.”

“He looks old,” Jon blurted bluntly, the both of them rolling into a fit of laughter as he barely got the last word out. Ghost lifted his head, eyes slits, but laid back down once their giggling subsided.

“Old Nan always tells us that the sun drains the beauty from everyone, which is why we will all get old and wrinkly,” Robb bunched up his nose at that. How Jon missed Old Nan’s tales. He wished he could have Dany sit in on them and watch her reaction. She would be terrified, albeit entirely allured to them.

Afterward, Jon shared his goings-on of his new life with Robb, explaining how the searing heat felt as though it would melt the skin right off his bones, and it took a good many moons to find somewhat of a comfort in it. His body was so accustomed to the chill of the North, that he had begun to wonder if it was in his blood to reject anything warmer. At least the nights were cooler.

He gave great detail to their day-to-day, how he and Dany had bonded without any coercion, and the little adventures they took - with what they were allowed, anyway. How Dany enthused over the flowers that she and Serra planted together, and while Jon was not  _ completely _ invested, he listened anyway. It always filled him with happiness when she found joy in something, because so much of her life was joyless. Which was why Jon did as much as he could to keep that little flame alive, from constructing miniature tents using sticks, logs, mud and vines to camp out in the trees right along the manse, to their spine-tingling ventures chasing after her slimy brother (though, that bit Jon kept to himself. He couldn’t risk that getting into the wrong ears, even Robb’s). How enthusiastic Dany was so educate Jon on their family's ancient history, beginning with the visions of the Doom of Valyria that Daenys the Dreamer envisioned, and then how Aegon and his sister-wives Rhaenys and Visenya flew their fearsome dragons into battle. Privately, Dany told Jon that she often dreamt that  _ she _ was a dragonrider herself and wondered if  _ her _ dreams might come to fruition someday.

While dragons were long extinct, Jon could not bring it upon himself to dash her hopes, seeing how bright her eyes came alight when she spoke of the beasts.

That also was when Dany patiently explained to him how the Targaryens preferred to wed and breed within their own blood, not only to keep from diluting it, but to ensure an impenetrable bond with their dragons. It came as a shock to Jon - he could not possibly imagine having to wed any of his female siblings, let alone them growing large with his child - but over time, he felt he began to accept it for what it was. When he thought about it, he remembered Stark cousins having wed in the past, so it wasn't completely exclusive to the Targaryen name. Just frowned upon by many.

"She is  _ very _ pretty. Are you going to marry her?" Robb teases, and it took Jon a moment to realize, as he finished speaking, that he meant Dany.

"What?" Jon asked dumbly, frowning so deeply that his brow pressed on his eyelids. "No! We're best friends! You don't ever marry your best friends."

Robb threw himself on his back upon the bed, laughing, beside himself. "Are you that daft?" He breathed. "She has to be the prettiest girl that I've  _ ever _ seen, and I've seen a lot of girls."

Jon collected his feather pillow and whacked Robb straight over the belly with it, causing him to grunt upon impact and rouse Ghost from his slumber. Before long, not only were they wrestling one another, but the wolf pup was trying his best to sink his teeth into anyone and anything that got in his way.

"Then why don't _ you _ marry her?" Jon proposed after catching his breath, dodging a swing of Robb's arm just whizzing over his head. 

"Maybe I will," Robb said, throwing himself at Jon and, by happenstance, right off of the bed. Jom groaned as he landed on his back, grateful to have done so on the plush fur rug at the foot of the bed. "If not to drive that sniveling brother of hers absolutely mad!"

Jom chuckled and tossed Robb off of him, each of them damp from their roughhousing. While they lay there catching their breath, Jon wondered if Dany  _ did _ mean to marry Viserys. It would not be her choice, regardless. The idea of it not only made him ill, but flushed with anger, that she would lose all quality of life if she were to be forced to live the rest of her days at his side. Bear his children. Allow him to hurt her as he chose, however often he chose. How long would Jon be able to protect her? How far would his protection even reach, if she and Viserys were to be man and wife?

"Are you alright?" Robb asked, head turned toward him with a half smile crooked upward as Jon broke free of the unpleasant wonderings.

"Aye," Jon mumbled weakly, swallowing. "We should probably get some sleep."

They did just that, as Robb left briefly to gather his nightclothes and returned to share Jon's bed. Ghost tuckered out between them, his soft snores lulling Jon into a soundless rest.

That night, Jon dreamt that he was running amongst the trees, the bramble crunching beneath the weight of his scurrying feet. Unfamiliar scents filled his nostrils, faintly of ash or fire and wood, intertwined with his racing heart and distant screeches. Thorny bushes scraped his sides as he ran with abandon, vision narrowed to the endless black pit of forest before him.

Seeking, searching, but for what, he did not know.


End file.
